Volatile
by Zeech
Summary: Two years after the Inception job, Eames is presumed dead. Their relationship-something Arthur refused to ever label, or bring into the open-has been defined by almost a decade of violence, darkness, and a volatile unspoken love.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This will be continued in several parts. Not always in a chronological order, it's mostly a series of memories defining a relationship spanning almost a decade. I hope you all enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Not Eames, not Arthur, nor any of the characters represented in this work. I DO own my Cavalier, but winning that in a lawsuit would be an incredibly unfunny joke.

**Volatile **

They are coming, because he failed.

Eames stews in this darkness, and his body contours almost unnaturally to the ugly sienna chair in the middle of the motel room. His surroundings stink of smoke, and vomit, and the scent of whiskey hangs heavy in the air around him, but he does nothing for it. He stews, and stares at the dented blue door, fingering his totem in one hand—a reminder, gentle, and harsh all at once, that this _is_ his reality—and his weapon resting perfectly still against his thigh. So many times he has been here, waiting to challenge death, and so many times he has overcome. He does not feel the prickle of fear crawling up with legs and down from his shoulders this time, because now there is only him, and the ghost of a wry smile traces his colorless lips. In the end, he always knew it would be only him. Perhaps he shouldn't have run. Perhaps he ran, because he knew he would be the one followed. Arthur and Cobb seemed to have strength in their number, even if it was almost always only two.

Anthony Diehl—one of a hundred Marks over nearly a decade—carried a particularly troubled subconscious, and they had anticipated violence. What they had not anticipated was Diehl's learned ability to bury his secrets deep, deep into his mind, so deep that it meant risking limbo to take a third dive into the mind of a psychotically deranged genius. Cobb insisted Arthur go with him, and Arthur had mutely agreed. Eames' protest had come out of him before he even heard himself utter the words, and the Point Man had never been so quick to shoot him down. Eames had shouted, and when Arthur only glared and snapped open the silver brief case he snarled, and for the first time since his very first mission, Eames began to lose control of his own dream. The walls around them began to crumble, the floor beneath their feet groaned and cracked, and the voices of angry, violent projections echoed off the shifting structure. In seconds the three men were torn apart from one another, and struggled to stay alive for the next four minutes of the dream.

Eames remembers screaming, primal and raw with emotion when Arthur's loyalty to Cobb earned him a poorly-aimed, jagged end of a broomstick between his ribs. The Point Man had almost immediately spat a mouthful of blood, and Eames stopped fighting long enough to be overcome by the swarm of projections separating them.

When he had awoke he had almost no voice left, and could only gasp raggedly at the air, painful scraping breaths deep into his lungs as he clumsily tipped the other chairs over. Arthur awoke in a fury.

Now the doorknob slowly twists, back and forth, testing, and locking it seems to have bought Eames mere moments. He does not use these moments to formulate any semblance of a plan, but instead he pockets his totem, and awaits the inevitable. Only when the first shot rings out, and the locked door is a long since forgotten joke, does he remember he has not yet disengaged the safety on his weapon.

* * *

Arthur is in the shower when he gets the call.

He faces the water and lets the searing heat and steam wash over him, eyes closed and hands stabbing long fingers into short dark hair over and over, as if he is trying still trying to claw matted blood from an injury he dreamed up not two weeks ago. He is not remembering that particular moment of desperate violence however, he is forming an explanation in his mind. An apology of sorts. He is envisioning a scenario he often avoids when it comes to this, and though he is attempting to steer it in the direction of an explanation the words he puts together come to be an apology.

The idea stings less and less when he thinks about how Eames apologizes. Eames uses even fewer words than he does, and when he is truly sorry he speaks with the language of his body. By the end of his shower, Arthur has a quirk in the corner of his mouth that he cannot seem to drop, and as he dresses the quirk only indents deeper into his cheek. He passes by the coffee table and sees the screen of his phone is blinking: 4 missed calls, 2 new voicemails. All from Cobb. Arthur rolls his eyes and slides into a clean undershirt, unable to even imagine that in another four minutes he will be on the floor of his rented, pre-furnished flat, on his knees with his hands on his face, heaving dry, silent sobs. Two minutes after that he will be numbly vomiting coffee and bile onto the tiled floor.

First message: "Arthur, _pick up the phone_. I don't want to leave this in a message but I don't have time, I booked us a flight to Mexico-"

Second message: "Yusuf… Yusuf found him. He's… in a motel in Tijuana. He's dead, Arthur. Yusuf thinks Diehl's people must have gotten to him late in the night, after he'd been drinki—" Static cut out something in the middle—Cobb was probably flying through a tunnel on his way to the airport. "—burned most of the body, but if the police can identify him-traced back to us. Arthur, I need—" More static. "—to call me as soon as you get this."

Another ten minutes, and Arthur is back on his feet. When he calls Cobb back his voice is a chilling calm, and when he hangs up he immediately starts gathering up his few possessions, robotic, and unemotional.

Eames died alone, in a cheap Mexican motel two days ago, and Arthur knows that time will eventually heal him of that grief. Arthur knows that tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that he will go on performing his duties to the best of his ability.

And yet he can feel that the fire that once burned deep within him has been extinguished, and it will not return again.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II**

**CHICAGO, USA**

**December [ 8 years ago ]**

"Not much of a celebration, now was it?"

Arthur does not look up from his drink, stirring it lazily with his forefinger and wondering exactly what time it is. Everyone else had left about an hour ago, all drifting off one by one with a pat on the shoulder, and euphoric glaze in their eyes. Arthur should have turned in himself hours ago—he has a very early flight tomorrow, but instead agreed to another round with Eames. He can feel the eyes of the other man on him as he takes his finger out of the Jack and Coke, and puts it to his mouth. "Not by your standards I suppose. Nobody has had their stomach pumped or gone to jail," he glances up, a wry smile. "Yet."

Eames laughs, an easy, melodic sound. He leans back in his chair and shakes his finger at Arthur. "Tsk, tsk—you shouldn't judge a man for his past. I've been cultured since."

"You have matured... slightly, I'll give you that," Arthur swirls the dark drink once before downing what is left of the watery concoction, and nods to the other man. "You ready to get out of here?"

The bar is almost empty, and though it is alm ost a quarter to two, the bartender has not even bothered to announce last call. Then again, it is a Monday night, and most of the city has long since gone to bed. The idea of that makes Arthur even more tired, and he rises just as Eames swipes the tab from the table top, and begins to head for the counter. "I've got this," he waves at Arthur to go, and Arthur murmurs a thank you. As he heads out the door, into the cool night, and leans against the light post he closes his eyes. There is a warmth over him, probably from that last round, and so when Eames comes outside and slides an arm across his back he doesn't fight it. He allows the larger man to lean on him, and rest his forehead against the crook of his shoulder. Arthur turns his head with a tiny scowl, just enough so that his cheek grazes the top of the Forger's head.

"Still bothering you?" Arthur asks quietly, referring to the phantom headache Eames had suffered through since the awoke from the job—determined to finish his part in the plan, Eames had allowed a projection to beat him into a bloody pulp with a baseball bat to buy himself a few more moments of dream-time. It had been a slow death, and Arthur will only silently admire the Forger for his dedication. One who doesn't know Arthur might think his words are cold, and not at all comforting, but one who does know him recognizes the subtle change in his voice, and stance when the other man groans into his coat. "Or is this another lame attempt to take me home with you?"

Eames grins against him, before lifting his forehead and shrugging. "Probably both. Why, do you think I should?" Arthur has stopped blushing and snarling at Eames' come-ons—they have become as commonplace as his accent, simply part of the language he speaks. He usually retreats now, with a good grace, after the second rejection anyway. This time Eames' grin fads into an exhausted smile, and he reaches up to stroke a finger along Arthur's jaw line. Arthur still does not react. "It's been so long since I've been with a man."

"Well that tends to happen when you date women."

Eames drops his hand, but he steps a little closer. "That was my masculine streak. Tends to only last a few months, now I'm back on my needy streak. I'm slightly drunk and rather needy right now which will probably only last through the remainder of this buzz, hold me," he completely envelopes Arthur with his arms, pulling the other man close and leaning so heavily Arthur actually stumbles. Arthur smacks his arm, and together they step away from the light post, still entangled. Eames laughs when Arthur smacks him again, lighter this time, and pulls back just enough so that he can rest his forehead against the other man's.

"That's a no, then?"

"You're not my type," Arthur replies nonchalantly, and Eames rolls his eyes.

"Always the straight and narrow for our glorious Point Man," his eyes lower, as if he is taking in the moment while he still can, having Arthur's lips, and jaw, and his dark eyes in such intimate proximity, finally, in one of these rare moments. Arthur says nothing, but lets the other man have the moment. "I could be, you know," his voice is soft. His posture changes, and Arthur senses it coming before it even happens—Eames lowers his head for a kiss, and his lips only just brush against Arthur's before the other man finally twists out of his grip.

"You did promise to forge as Catherine Zeta-Jones for my birthday two years ago," he answers indirectly. "When's that supposed to happen, anyway?"

Eames smiles, but does not laugh. His hands find his pockets. "Not what I meant," he murmurs, but drops the subject anyway. Two years go, he would not have let it go so easily. Arthur appreciates that, because two years ago he might have still taken a swing at Eames for leaning all over him, kissing him, and dropping terms of endearment all over his person. He wonders if Eames notices how he has almost stopped fighting them, and wonders if it would even be a good thing if he has noticed. Their relationship had developed into a complicated one—one Arthur was having trouble defining over the lately. For as much as they would banter, and argue, and snarl, and scuffle (but never on the job), Eames has become something between a half-way friend, and the unattainable. Not because he doesn't throw himself at Arthur every so often, but because Arthur generally considers himself to be straight. He has never been with a man, because he has never quite felt the same for another man. He'd felt the strange pang inside his chest the first time he'd met the Forger, and had been very good at pushing the alien feeling down, channeling it into a more tolerable energy by using no restraint when they do argue, and fight, and shoot one another down. And now that he has haphazardly accepted it to be real, not some weird affectionate drunken state, he is uncertain of what to do with it.

Eames' gaze lingers on him for a moment more, and then the bright eyes shift, ever so slightly. "Arthur," he breathes, dazedly, and the Point Man frowns.

"What?"

"_Arthur_!"

He is only vaguely aware of the rushing pain that comes with hitting the pavement face first, so fast and hard, bullets crackling overhead that he does not have time to break the fall with his hands, and Eames' weight presses down on him. Tires squeal, and when Arthur can lift his head again he sees a black sedan peeling to a halt, and coming back for one more hit. Eames' strong hands are on the back of his coat, and he is ripped back up off the payment and pushed into a sprint. Eames is at his heels, and they both fly to the end of the sidewalk, scrabbling to reach for their weapons when the car passes them again and sprays another hail of gunfire their way. Eames gets off only three or four shots before he shoves Arthur into the alleyway. The Point Man snarls in indignation, and darts behind the wall to fire at the back of the vehicle as it speeds away. They manage to bust the back window, and shoot one of the tires, but the assailants are already out of range to do any real damage.

Arthur swears viciously, and ducks behind the wall again, fumbling for his phone with shaking fingers. "I'm calling Cobb," he stammers, and holds it to his ear. Eames, doubled over but still holding his gun on-guard, nods breathlessly. "They're probably headed his way next," the phone rings, and a drowsy voice fills the other end. "Cobb—the bar, Eames and I were just—Eames? Eames, what the fuck?" Eames coughs hard, once, and then again, and again until he drops his gun. He waves at Arthur dismissively, as though the other man is being silly, and unsteadily tries to pick his gun up off the pavement. Arthur watches him, warily. "Drive-by, yeah—" Eames topples over, onto his hands and knees, before rolling onto his pack, grimacing in agony with his hands clutching his middle. "EAMES—" Arthur drops the phone and comes to the Forger's side, where two red blotches are nearly doubling in size on the light grey shirt.

"Fuckin' Hell," Eames mumbles, hardly able to lift his head to see the extent of his injuries, and swearing again when he sees the red stains growing over him, hot and wet, spreading quickly. "Fuck, I—I didn't feel it—"

"Goddamnit, Eames," Arthur tries his best to maneuver an arm behind Eames' shoulders to help him walk, and the other man does make quite the effort before collapsing onto his back again. Arthur stumbles with him, but is immediately seizing him under the arms and dragging him further into the alley. Perhaps the darkness will provide _some_ sort of cover. He gently sets the Forger down, and rips the stubborn buttons apart, fitting a palm over each of the gunshot wounds. Blood bubbles, and then spits over his fingers. "God why," he hisses, and Eames lets his head loll backward, a ghost of a smile gracing those full, pale lips. "These were mine you fucking asshole," he growls, and presses down harder—Eames gasps, shallow, and the Point Man knows he is causing the other pain, but is desperate to stop the bleeding. "You—fuck, you didn't..." the blood continues to spill over his long fingers, and Arthur shuts hit eyes, gritting his teeth. "Fuck, Eames."

The other's breathing is starting to slow. A wet, bloodied hand comes to brush weakly against his cheek, and when he looks over Eames' white face is contorted in pain, and yet, still twisted with a red-stained grin.

"Bet you're regretting that invite now, yeah?" he murmurs, and Arthur stares at him, mouth agape and eyes wide with horror. Eames only lets his eyes slide closed, and rasps tiredly, "Next time I suppose," his head falls to the side, even as Arthur snarls his name. "…darling."

Darling. Arthur freezes, and does not stop applying pressure to the other man's core, but something inside him breaks. He is suddenly ripped wide open, and feels light, flimsy, and his mind falls back with a jolt. Darling. The first time.

**TIJUANA, MEXICO**

**[Now]**

There are none around to see the flames lick the desert floor, and the black smoke curls upward to disappear into the blacker night. Only three figures cast their shadows amongst the funeral pyre, and remain in silence. Bless Yusuf for having wrapped the body in the black bed sheets Eames had been found on, after carefully removing what remained of the Forger's possessions from the parts of his clothing that had not been disintegrated. He handed them to Arthur when they met him at the door, and it spared Arthur having to see what Yusuf had described as "unrecognizable". It seems wrong to burn Eames' body, after what Diehl's people had already done to disfigure him, but that was the catch in their world, and they had all agreed to it years ago—to be burned, incinerated, and not left to rot in a wooden box beneath the Earth.

Arthur says nothing as Yusuf carefully throws more fuel into the fire. It hisses and hollows, and Eames burns even brighter than before. Arthur's fingers find the melted poker chip in his pocket, and presses it to the die, curling his fist and squeezing until his entire arm aches, but he says nothing. Cobb finally clears his throat.

"I think he would have wanted this," his voice is hoarse, and his eyes are slightly unfocused. "He mentioned it once, after Schaffer… how he preferred…" Cobb trails off, and wearily rubs a hand over his face, "Yusuf, you first." Arthur's eyes flick over to see Cobb looking at him, but he does not turn his head, and his jaw tightens. He cannot see Yusuf, but hears him sniff, and cough once before starting.

"Jonathan Eames," his voice is gravel. "You always said you would go before me. I never believed you, because you cheated it so many times. I used to tell you that you were immortal, and you told me it was because neither Heaven or Hell wanted to deal with the likes of you," Yusuf's voice drops uncharacteristically, and so does his head. "Good luck, Jack."

Arthur watches the fire, and half-listens to the others. Cobb continues on about Eames, the gentleman, the Forger, the friend, the quick-thinker, the unpredictable Jonathan Eames, and the Point Man pushes emotion ever-downward. He remembers Eames and his qualities, his vices, his secrets, his selfishness, and his selflessness. He remembers the quirk on those full lips every time he finally riled Arthur beyond reason, and how that quirk did not waver even as Arthur spat venom back at him. He remembers finally learning how to rile Eames, and how quickly the man made a grin turn into a grimace, and then a snarl, and how the fire would spread between them until they were engulfed and burning and how the fire always brought them back to cool, early mornings, lying beside one another, one sleeping, one watching the other sleep.

But he says nothing, even as the hours pass, and Cobb's hand is heavy and warm on his shoulder. He says nothing, because he wishes he could go back, and unsay so _many_ words he has spoken over the years. He is angry, because he can only imagine Eames somewhere, smug and smiling, that at the end of their war he has finally won. Eames has finally managed to cause more pain than Arthur could ever hope to, and Eames has left that pain behind to linger on with him.

The fire finally dies. The desert is black once more.

**San Diego, USA**

**[Now]**

The deed is done, and their tracks have been concealed, expertly as always. Arthur drops his keys and does not even remove his shoes before going to the closet and engaging the PASIV.

"Really?" Eames' voice, a smile lingering behind it, pulls him into the dreamscape. Arthur leans over the balcony of the nameless hotel room, and below him Hong Kong's noise and smog and traffic is just a quiet echo in the dimming evening. The sky is turning indigo, but there is still a smoldering dark orange on the horizon as the sun finishes setting. Eames is behind him, drink in his hand, forming words around a cigarette Arthur knows is hanging between his lips. "S'been two days, love. You got the call this morning, and you're already resorting to this? Tsk, tsk. Whatever happens to tears and tissues, and good old fashioned binge drinking?"The quirk returns to Arthur's lips, and he is grateful for it, however shallow it is compared to the real thing. The projection joins him at the balcony, but faces opposite him, with his back pressed against the railing, "and Hong Kong of all places. You broke my nose in Hong Kong."

"Yeah, but then I set it straight for you," his eyes slide over to the Forger's, and the quirk on his lips has become more like a smile. Eames snorts, and his flicks his cigarette.

"Yes, and that was the _second_ most painful memory of the night. _And _there was still a bit of a bump for weeks after."

"You got that fixed, you vain fuck," Arthur replies easily. Then he frowns. "I paid for most of it, if I remember correctly."

"Should've paid for all of it, bastard," the projection mutters into his glass before taking a tip, and wipes the whisky moustache off his upper lip with one smooth lick of his tongue. "Still," Eames drops the cigarette and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. "Why Hong Kong? You were still in some serious denial in Hong Kong. Hence the broken nose and painful hours of recovery time from surgery."

Why Hong Kong? Arthur can not immediately answer aloud, even here, in the privacy of his dream. He has only been there once, and never before or since. It would be another two months before he even saw Eames after this night, and three before they fucked for the first time. Why Hong Kong? Eames had called him out on this evening, seven years and a month ago, when Arthur had drank too much and slept far too little. Eames had actually been the sober one, for once, and after Arthur had made a hasty retreat back to his room, Eames had chased him up there. He had banged on the door, shouted, and demanded Arthur own up and explain his actions.

_Why don't you say it, say it aloud and say it to yourself because you know it's true—there is something here, you see it, you feel it, I know you do because I have this whole fucking time Arthur! Arthur, Arthur FUCK open this door, Arthur! _

"I ran because I could finally picture it," Arthur murmurs, almost more to himself than the projection of Eames. He takes the drink out of Eames' hand, and swishes the dark liquid and ice around the bottom of the glass. "Because I didn't care anymore, what it meant to be with you. What it meant for me, because you weren't a woman. Because I couldn't call myself straight anymore, and I didn't care. And that," Arthur pauses, and a laugh lingers between his chest and his lips, like the drink in his hand. "That scared me more than anything I'd ever seen, or done… scared me like someone told me it was the end of the world." Eames is staring at him, fondly, quietly listening with his hands behind him on the railing. "And that made me angry. God, Eames, it—I was so angry. I was furious, because I knew things were about to change for me. Forever."

After a moment, Eames stirs. "You weren't always angry," he moves closer, and Arthur closes his eyes when the heat, and the smell of Eames, sweet and bitter and mingled with smoke, descends on him. His body begins to go slack against the railing, and he can do nothing to stop it. Eames is close enough to touch him, but does not. Instead, his gaze moves over Arthur slowly, softly. "But you are now," Arthur's head sinks between his shoulders, farther than he'd meant it to, until it is resting on his forearms. "Is it me, still? Are you angry with me, or the ones who killed me?"

"You," Arthur's voice is deep, and muffled against his sleeve. "And them—I hate them for doing this, and I'm so angry at you. I hate you a little for that. For being you, for sitting there smug as fuck like you always do when they're coming for us, itching for a fucking fight, thinking you're a God. Thinking you're untouchable, Eames, they caught up to you," his words are becoming one croak after another, turning into sobs. "They caught up to you, like Schaffer, and Nash, and all those other fucks we've buried over the years and they shot you. They shot you in the chest, they put a gun in your mouth and blew your fucking head off and they _torched_ your fucking body," his voice gets louder, and his own sobs pound inside his head, deafening, as he sinks onto the floor and doubles over. "And then we finished it, because we had to…we burned you to the ground until you there was nothing left. I hate you for leaving me here, and I miss you, and I'm sorry I let it end the way it did!" Arthur is shouting into the planks of wood, between shudders, and his body shakes and trembles. Tears and saliva wet the wood beneath his face. "I'm sorry!" he cries, sobs, and the projection joins him on the ground. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I take it back, take it all back!"

Eames' arms are around him, they cradle him, and hold him hard, but the projection does not speak. Arthur returned to Hong Kong because this was where it had all began, and he wishes, desperately, that he could do it differently.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Thank you for the kind words, everyone! I really hope you enjoy this installment, it's very, erm... "intense"!

**PART III**

**MIAMI, USA**

**February [ 9 years and 6 months ago ]**

Arthur is twenty three years old when he works his first job alongside Eames.

At this point there is nothing of the lingering animosity in this mission as the ones to follow it, no. They actually get on quite well with one another, and after the job has proven to be quite the success Eames offers to take the two men out for a night in one of his favorite cities. Cobb gracelessly refuses, a little too quickly, and mutters something about being entirely too old and married to participate in the kind of evening his colleague Eames enjoys. He shoots Arthur a strange look upon declining the invitation, one Arthur should have taken as a fair warning.

And yet, Arthur is young, and therefore curious to know exactly what things his friend is too "old and married" for, and when he expresses this to Cobb he gets a stern look. Mal says nothing, but tries and fails to smother a mischievous smile.

This is most certainly not his first time in a bar, but Arthur was expecting a little more flash and flare from one like Eames. He had expected to start the night in one of Miami's illustrious, infamous clubs, not in a smoky pub with a couple of shots and a beer. Arthur begins to feel a light buzz after the first two shots, and yet Eames keeps downing them one right after the other. It is only when Eames is six shots over him that he appears even in the least bit intoxicated, and Arthur is hardly able to keep his bottom on the barstool. He begins to wonder, mildly, if there is something other than tequila now running through his system, but when he mentions it to Eames he only gets a very loud laugh, and hard slap on the back.

They talk for what seems like hours—mostly about the job, and Eames has quite a few stories to share of his time in the business. He has been at it a little longer than the other man, and yet cannot help but be impressed by the Point Man's short resume. Eames grins and listens intently, removing his button down shirt halfway into the night to reveal muscular shoulders ridden with tattoos, images, words, meshed ink on an artfully tanned body. Arthur feels his story begin to slow, and the drink in his hand becomes a little heavier than it was before. It is not until Eames leans in that Arthur realizes he has stopped talking in the middle of his story, and started staring.

"See something you like?"

"What? No, I…" Arthur tries, and clears his throat loudly, tipping his beer back in an attempt to look casual. Eames' attention, thankfully, is on something else in a nanosecond and the awkward moment does not linger for too long. Instead, he waves a hand to pull Arthur's focus elsewhere.

"Watch this," he whispers deviously, eyes bright and gleaming despite the copious amounts of alcohol already consumed. He spins on his barstool, and pats the shoulder of a slender blonde sitting two stools away from them. She turns, glances Eames over once, and a slow smile plays across her red lips. Eames nods back at Arthur with a wink, and moves forward to whisper something in the blonde's ear. She draws back, hand over her mouth in mock-horror, and then the smile returns to her face.

"Really," she murmurs, and glances over at Arthur with real interest. Eames' head is shaking enthusiastically, and the young woman slides off of her own stool, leaving a few scantly-clad, obscenely thin friends behind with very puzzled looks on their faces.

Sunny—because Arthur is one-hundred percent convinced that is her real name—moves between the two men, and faces him with a very determined pout. She does not object when Eames' large hands come to rest on either side of her hips, almost on her bottom. Instead she slides her hand over Arthur's forearm, and picks up his drink without dropping his gaze. The edge of the glass lingers at that cherry red pout. "And where are these auditions being held, Mr. Martin?"

Arthur's brow contorts, only very slightly, and when his stare drifts over to Eames the Forger is mouthing, 'GO WITH IT' and his thumb is jutted upward so far it would put a hitchhiker to shame. Arthur smiles, and he does go with it.

It is the fastest he has gone from 'hello, stranger' to a blowjob in his life. When he and the lady exit the bathroom he slips her a fake card, with an incredibly vague business title, and she greedily disappears into the crowd. Arthur—hair still somewhat slicked back, and appearance minimally tousled—makes sure his pants are zipped and his belt is done up before he makes his subtle return to the bar.

Eames is leaning forward on his elbows, laughing uproariously about something with the bar-back and tender when he sees Arthur, and spins to face him—the devious smile threatens to split his face in two, and makes his eyes crinkle so tightly they almost disappear.

"You're _despicable, _Arthur!"

Arthur feels his stomach drop, as does his jaw, and thinks his reply is much faster and far less drunk than it actually is. "_You_ were the one with a stack of fake 'Mr. Martin the porn distributor' cards—"

"Right, well, I never said _I_ wasn't despicable," this remark is followed by Eames accepting two more shots of something he refuses to identify from the bartender and passing one to Arthur. "But you, look at you. So pure, and true. To transmogrification—" he clinks the shot glass noisily with the young Point Man's, and half chokes on it when he sees how determinedly Arthur tosses it back. "Easy, easy—" he sputters, and wipes his mouth across his bare forearm. "The night is young."

"Says the man who already downed more than twice what I have,"

"Says the man who couldn't hold it half as well as me, anyway."

"What?"

"Exactly," Eames brings his beer to his lips just as the bartender finishes pouring two more cocktails, and slides them over to a very puzzled Arthur and Eames. Brows raised, Eames sniffs it and takes a delicate sip. "What's this then?" The bartender shrugs, and points to one of the many tables out in the room, indicating someone ordered it for them. Eames returns the shrug, and murmurs into the rim of the glass, "Fuck I love Miami."

Arthur is not so quick to accept this random act of generosity. He sets the drink down, and tries to get a better look at the table. He scans the crowd, briefly, and catches a very burly fellow eyeballing him right back. Sobriety is a ways off, but the Point Man still feels his body flare to the ready in case there is need to fight—or to just run. "Eames."

"Mmm?" Eames has already downed most of the mystery concoction.

"There's a note," Arthur accepts the folded scrap of paper from the man behind the bar without breaking the stare of the man at the table. The man who bought them both drinks finally breaks a smile, and shakes his head, slowly. Arthur opens the note with one hand, and feels the back of his neck suddenly heat up. The man at the table is laughing now, and a few of the women are cupping hands over their mouths, wide-eyed and curious. Seeing his sudden change in body language, Eames snatches it up and reads it, twice, actually, and when he looks up his expression has flattened into a bitter, resigned one. He downs the rest of his drink.

"Fuck, I hate Miami."

"You Martin?" the voice is slurred and gruff behind him, and when Arthur turns to confront the man whose girlfriend just gave him head he is met with a hard flash of pain to his forehead.

Arthur ends up learning, later in life, to do far less drinking with Eames, especially in public places (and especially after missions)—one reason for this being that Eames simply cannot settle for just an ordinary night out, and another being the fact that intoxication severely hinders his reaction time: something that has kept him alive thus far working in the field he has chosen. But Arthur is young, still, and when he is sucker-punched square in the face he is knocked gracelessly onto his back, between two bar stools. One of which is Eames', who is on his feet in a matter of seconds.

"This one's with me, you've got the wrong gentleman," he hears the other man say, from somewhere in the suddenly quiet bar. Perfectly in tune with the ringing in Arthur's ears. "As in he's _with_ me with me, not just with me. Are you getting the picture?" Arthur unsteadily pulls himself back onto his feet, ready to throw one hell of a right hook when Eames' hand grasps his collar, and closes the distance between them.

Arthur is suddenly leaning heavily against the other man, his face pressed into the side of Eames' neck. He grabs the available shoulder as leverage to push himself off, but Eames is already spotting his physical advantage, and the Forger silences any protests with a firm, hard kiss against the Point Man's gaping mouth. He even has time to move a hand to Arthur's jaw line and close it for him, sliding his tongue past Arthur's lips before he even truly comprehends the situation. Eames breaks the kiss after a moment and smiles down at Arthur, briefly, before turning back to their challenger, "how about now?"

When Eames receives his first punch to the face, it is from Arthur, not the man with a grudge hell-bent on violence. Eames goes down quicker than Arthur does, but he also returns to his feet twice as fast. Instead of hitting him back he descends onto the burly man twice his size with a brutal force that Arthur had most certainly not expected, and he is left to watch, dumfounded, as Eames tackles the man onto the ground and begins to beat the consciousness out of him with one curled, bloodied fist. It only occurs to Arthur even to half-way join the fight when it appears as though Sunny's boyfriend did not come without back-up.

The brawl does not last long, and when Arthur is knocked into several on-lookers he begins to sober a little, enough to get tired of this ridiculous scenario, and his fingers meet his side arm just as Eames is hoisted over the heads of two of the men and thrown unceremoniously behind the bar. The crash of his body against the shelves, and then ultimately, the floor, is drowned out when Arthur fires several rounds into the ceiling.

There it is. Dead silence, finally. Arthur levels the gun to the brawl's other participants, and takes several long strides forward after they raise their hands and resign to just back up. He goes behind the bar and grips Eames' forearm, pulling the cackling, bloodied Forger to his feet and making a very quick exit.

Roughly an hour later, as he leaves the liquor store with Eames at his side, he recalls Cobb's words. He wonders if he should ever even bother repeating the experience to the older man, who had clearly been right where he is now—walking alongside Eames, littered with bruises, drying blood, and bar filth. Arthur grips the necks of two bottles in one fist, and Eames' arms are occupied by a rather hefty 18 pack of what he affectionately referred to as 'American Piss-Water'. They had just made it to the liquor store before it closed—it is now nearing two-thirty.

"So. What the hell was that?" Arthur can feel his left eye starting to swell _quite_ badly now, but he does not bother complaining.

"Which part?" Eames has two black eyes.

"The part where you basically had control of the situation, charming our way out of it, and then said 'fuck it' and now the police are probably looking for us," Arthur glances over his shoulder. "Because that doesn't happen quite often enough?"

"What, you hit me."

"You _kissed_ me, you crazy fuck," Arthur snorts, and when Eames smiles he cannot help but mirror it. "How do you go from kissing a guy, tongue and all, to putting a man comparable to the Incredible Hulk into a coma? And probably permanently disfiguring his two biggest buddies?"

"Glorious amounts of drugs and alcohol," There is a pause in Eames' stride, and the beers clink softly together in their case. "What exactly was going on with _you_ back there? In the dreamscape you certainly got the job done, yes, but you're all about precision, and perfectly executed _planned_ assaults. Which answers my question as to why a man like Cobb finds you so utterly indispensable, but back there..." he trails off, and slowly maneuvers himself into Arthur's path, grey eyes drifting to the stained and torn collar of his shirt, as though he is drinking in the delicious memory. Arthur watches him, somewhat suspicious. His brain fumbles helplessly for a quick retort, but his mouth cannot form the words.

He finds himself frozen as Eames moves in closer, even as the warm, soft mouth—tasting of copper, and whiskey, and cigarettes—is on his for the second time in one night, and Eames' teeth drag along his bottom lip. "You're a _fucking force _of_ nature_," Eames murmurs, right before his tongue reacquaints itself with the inside of Arthur's mouth. Something in the Point Man breaks, and his free hand curls, then jerks. Eames gracelessly loses the case of beer when the blow lands, and is instantly pressing a white-knuckled hand over the side of his already marred face.

"_Fucking Hell, _Arthur!"

"How are you not getting this?" Arthur snaps, now gripping the two bottles so hard he feels the glass grind between his fingers. "I only kiss _women_, Eames, and I only _fuck_ women!"

"Yes, and I fuck them, too, _Arthur_," Eames cups his jaw hard, as if wondering whether or not he has finally broken something tonight.

"_Only_ women, jackass."

"Square," Eames mutters somewhat indignantly, but it turns into wry amusement as Arthur bends down to start picking up the mess of cardboard and broken beer bottles at their feet. Of all the things to worry about. The Forger leans downward, a puzzled frown. "Ah... what are you doing, exactly, darling?"

Arthur pauses. Then his head snaps up. "What the fuck did you just call me?"

**CHICAGO, USA **

**December [ 1 year, 6 months after Miami ]**

"…darling," now blood is spilling over his lips, and Arthur does his best to keep the make-shift bandages taut around the Forger's middle. Arthur does his best not to panic, either, because he has been trained not to. He breathes deep, and keeps his thoughts in one smooth linear progression as they flow through his head—he envisions the ambulance getting there on time, the paramedics stabilizing Eames, Eames coming out of surgery, and then leaving the hospital. He keeps these thoughts going so that they do not wander to the other extreme, and in his arms, against his chest, Eames writhes miserably. "…darling, I can't breathe—"

"You'll just have to cope with it, Eames," he says hoarsely, almost distracted. The ambulance, the paramedics, the surgery, the recovery, the—

"… _please_, I can't breathe," Eames' ribs try to expand against Arthur's hold, and the tight pieces of his shirt he has fastened around Eames' chest and middle to staunch the bleeding. A stall. Only a stall. Eames hisses, and moans, pitifully. "Please I'm in so much pain, just let me breathe," fingers dig into Arthur's thigh, and the Point Man ignores the desperate gesture. "Arthur..."

"I can't do it," Arthur says firmly, and keeps his head up, eyes peeled for any sign of help. "You'll bleed twice as fast, you'll die."

Eames struggles, writhes, and falls against him again, exhausted, but his bleary eyes roll up to meet Arthur's. "Don't be stupid… I'm going to live for-fucking-ever—" Eames gasps, and Arthur feels the strain it is putting on his already weakened body. "FUCK, do it Arthur, _please_!" Arthur's hands disobey his brain when he slacks his grip beneath Eames' arms and begins to uncoil the strips of his shirt until he stops writhing. The broad shoulders rise, and release, and Eames lets his head drop again with a guttural groan. Arthur keeps an arm draped around Eames' chest, and when the Forger takes a sudden, sharp breath he instinctively squeezes him, hard, and the breath turns into a cry.

Fresh blood spatters, hot and arterial, over Arthur's bare arms and he scrabbles to press both palms against the bandage again, digging hard into the body beneath him. Eames is making a choking sound, a harsh wheeze, and Arthur does not allow his mind to get off track, to the other scenario, the impossible scenario—paramedics battling a fight long since called, Eames ashen, unfocused eyes, ride in the ambulance, pronounced at the—

Eames is laughing. The world slows again. Arthur's eyes rake back down to the Forger, and the weak display of such a smarmy, bloodied grin spikes his panic into anger. "Why the fuck are you laughing?" he snarls. Eames' slick hand finds his arm.

"See?" he wheezes. "Still alive, Arthur. For-fucking-ever."

**SAN DIEGO, USA**

**[ Now—10 A.M. Monday ]**

"Are you still alive? _Arthur_!"

Cobb, regarding Arthur incredulously, hands on either side of his face, one of them slapping his cheek. Rather hard, actually. The Point Man stirs, and the memory lingers only a moment more before he focuses on the concerned visage of his employer. He coughs, once, and sits up just as Cobb backs up to rest on the coffee table. "Jesus, I've been calling you for two days."

The PASIV device is partially hidden beneath a rumpled black and green afghan and his slacken left arm, and Arthur is grateful for that. He shakes his head, and wearily rubs his chin, over patterns of five-day stubble. "Yeah, I've… sorry, I've been busy." Busy meaning he has spent the better part of the week not leaving his apartment unless he has run out of bourbon.

"I see that." Cobb fingers the last of the Tennessee whiskey by the cap, and scowls, tipping it to the side. Arthur is also grateful that the other four identical bottles are in a trash can, beneath his sink. "What is this. You don't do this."

"Not usually, no," Arthur mutters. Both hands are running through his hair before he can stop himself, and he has given Cobb the perfect opening. In one quick movement the older man seizes his left wrist.

"No-!" his snap is a little too defensive, and he jerks backward as his sleeve is tugged downward. "_No, I'm fine_—it's not—look, Eames, just _leave it—!_" the name comes up from his throat and he freezes, helpless, as Cobb exposes the recent entry-point of the IV. Arthur's body slackens against the cushions as his arm is returned to him, and looks away. There really is no point in fighting anymore, he has been caught. Cobb's rough sigh breaks the empty silence.

"How many times?"

"Once." It is not a lie. Arthur is aware the dangers of seeking the comfort of a projection. The drinking seems the lesser evil. He still feels Cobb's gaze on him, and though he does not meet it, he tries to provide an explanation. "It isn't like that. I had to go in to remember where Eames' mother lives. To write her, let her know."

"Don't do that," Cobb's tone is sharp. "Don't do that, she's been dead since he was fifteen. Come on, this is me. It's _me_, Arthur," he still can't pry the other man's stare from the blank spot on the wall. "Christ," he breathes. "Arthur, you think you're the only one? He was the best. He was better than the best, and nothing will ever be the same. I put on a front for my children, but Ariadne calls me crying almost every night. Can't get in touch with Yusuf, and Saito has practically launched a Jihad—from the other side of the Globe, mind you—against these people…"

"Yeah," Arthur snorts, and runs his hand through his dark hair again. "We all loved him so much, that's why he died, alone, in that fucking cheap Mexican motel, probably wondering where we were. Probably wondering why we didn't come for him, after we found out about the hit." His hand drags down over his face, to cover his mouth, but his words, and eyes, are void of emotion. "Wondering why we let him die."

Cobb is silent, looking at the carpet with a very similar expression, all distance. Finally, "You didn't," his gaze drifts over to Arthur again. "You can't put this on yourself. You and he had a disagreement. It wasn't the first time."

"I never thought it would be the last," the Point Man murmurs into his hand, soft, and thoughtful. "I thought we had time."

Arthur is too lost in something, a memory perhaps, playing out in his mind. His forefinger strokes his bottom lip, and his stare is a thousand yards away. He does not notice that Cobb's stare is on him, unwavering. It is the look Cobb gets when he is forming a plan for extraction.

Arthur is not usually predictable, even to those who know him well. Cobb knows him better than he knows himself right now—because he suspects he has been here, before. He suspects the Point Man's unsettling grief to go even deeper than his tells will let on. It is past midnight when he silently enters the apartment, and his theory is proven to be correct. Arthur is dozing on the couch again, his left arm hidden beneath the afghan. If it were not his profession, Cobb may have felt wrong about invading another's dream. If he were not a criminal, Cobb may have had difficulty doing it undetected as long as he was able to. If Arthur was not his closest friend, and strongest ally, Cobb would not have bothered at all.

This studio-style flat is somewhat familiar to Cobb, although he cannot place it. It is cold by the door, but he dares not take another step from beyond the shadows—there is no light here, save the dim glow of a space heater in the corner of the wide room. Beside it is a wide double bed, made up with clean sheets, and opposite the bed is a couch facing an old TV set. Something is playing on it, but has been muted in favor of conversation. There is a quiet one going on, between the two bodies on the sofa. Cobb remembers this—he had been here earlier that day, almost six years ago, and given instructions to Eames on where to meet up in three weeks when the air had cleared over the Bryant job.

Arthur's eyes are fixed on the television but he is not watching it. He is leaning into Eames, lazily strewn over his side, with one of the larger man's arms loosely draped around him. Eames' is gaze is not on the television, it is on the top of Arthur's head. His fingers flex over the ball of the Point Man's shoulder, a gentle but firm grip—an affectionate gesture.

"You're stuck on a stigma that doesn't really exist anymore," comes the soft, accented voice in the darkness. It is tone of reasoning: Eames is trying to explain something, perhaps, taking the time to try and understand the other man. "It's not the same as it used to be. Look at me. We're the same, you and I."

"Eames," Arthur's voice is tired. Resigned. "Look, let's just… talk about this tomorrow, I can't deal with this right now," he shifts a little, and sits up so that he may take the other's head in his hands, palms smoothing over slicked, sideways-parted hair. He brushes a thumb over Eames' scarred eyebrow, and leans in to kiss him lightly. Eames' stare never leaves his face, and when Arthur pulls back he lets his forehead drop into the warm curve between Eames' neck and broad shoulder. "Just let us have tonight. Please, let us have this night the way we should have had it."

Eames has become rather rigid, and hesitates, then palms the back of Arthur's neck. "Are you ashamed of me, love?" his voice is low, and has dropped an octave—Cobb feels his skin prickle. He recognizes the possessive note, the bitter wanting.

"Why are you going on and on about this," Arthur's voice is still quiet, and controlled, but there is a desperate note hanging off the edge. His hands are still on either side of Eames' face, as if he cannot get enough of that touch, the feel of solid warmth, soft and rough skin beneath his, and the illusion that he can go back. "It isn't going to matter, in the end, what we were—what we are." Strong fingers wrap around his wrists, and _squeeze_.

"What are you afraid of?" Eames intensifies, and he releases Arthur hard. "What are you so afraid of, Arthur, it's sex, it's two people and it happens all the time, what are you so afraid of?" It is clear there is a storm brewing inside Arthur—Cobb can see the darkness coming over the pale face, and his brows draw together in an effort to control his temper. It is a losing battle, and Arthur shoots to his feet, stabbing fingers through his slicked dark hair and letting out a exasperated sigh. It hits the air as a growl.

"Don't do this," he finally stamps out. "Don't keep pushing so hard, I told you—this works for us. We're here, we've come this far, it took years to get even _here_… this is working for us, why are you trying to fuck it up, Eames?"

"It's working for _you_, Arthur," Eames replies, icily. "Because you enjoy skulking around behind closed doors, and can store all of these moments in between and they sustain you for months at a time. You've never asked me what _I_ want—"

"Because there are _only_ moments, here! There's nothing else left, you act like the world will end without a written explanation of what we are, without the rest of the team—and the world, the _whole fucking_ world knowing what we are, and I don't want to be something—" Arthur drags a sharp breath through his nose. An impressive attempt to calm down. "There isn't a label for what we are, so fucking _drop_ it, Jesus." He paces, crosses the length of the couch once, twice, and Eames just sits there, brooding. His eyes are still fixed on Arthur, darkly, and his mouth twists into what looks like a grimace, and then a tight, leering smile.

"Oh, but there is. There is a label, just _for _us, and a name for me, and for you now—and you're more scared of it than a loaded gun. It follows you around, wakes you up in the middle of the night—"

"Eames…" a final warning, low and hollow in Arthur's throat.

"Fag, homo, _fucking queer take your pick_ it's all you, love!" Eames is on his feet now, too, shouting in Arthur's face so close his nose is hovering against the Point Man's cheekbone, teeth bared and arms out to invite the retaliation rising in his lover's aura. "Is it so horrible? Is it so shameful, impossible, can you _bear _it Arthur, or does it burn as much as you thought it would?" His roaring turns into a deep cackle as Arthur shoves him away, hard. Cobb sees the strain, and effort it takes to grip his own head with both hands instead of tearing Eames apart with them. "Go on—go on then, keep fighting it," Eames taunts, the ugly crooked smile twisting. "It gets me so hot when you tear yourself apart with denial, anyway, I'll just store it away until I'm fucking you again—just remember that look on your face now, over and over—" the smile abruptly vanishes, when Arthur's fist smashes into the side of Eames' face and busts his lip, and the Forger is silenced. His head has snapped to the side, and he keeps it there a moment. Arthur crushes his fist in the palm of his other hand, his face breaking, control crumbling. 

"FUCK," Arthur shouts, at the very top of his lungs, and doubles over, briefly, fisting his hair. He hasn't hit Eames in years, but it's not enough—he's done it again, and it's _wrong_ this time, because they aren't just two drunken foolish young men anymore, on the edge of euphoria, rage, and reason. He cannot change it, and will relive this memory over, and over, and over again until he does.

"You turn me into a fucking monster, Eames, you push and push and—FUCK—" Eames' fingers grip into either side of his jaw, hard, crushing, as he starts pushing Arthur backward, taking long forceful strides until Arthur's back hits the wall and Eames' palm flattens beside his head. Arthur does not fight when the hand around his jaw moves down to grip him just beneath the chin, holding, not squeezing.

Five years, and four months ago in St. Petersburg, their spat had not gone this far. After slugging Eames mid-argument the Forger had taken a minute, before fisting his shirt in two hands and throwing him down onto the ground, hard. He did not see him again for three months after Eames had stormed out. Eames had not taken it this far, and Arthur sinks a little beneath the grip—knowing this memory will only change for the worse if he keeps trying.

Arthur's tightened muscles relax, contrasting the fierce strain of every fiber in the projection's solid frame as he begins to choke him, and waits to see if this will be the first time his projection of Eames kills him. Cobb has had enough, and lunges forward from his cover to take hold of the projection's own throat, hard enough to earn a sharp cry and a strangled cough before shoving him to the floor. Arthur looks as though something has literally sucked all the breath and blood out of his body—he is white, and freezes when he sees Cobb. Cobb just glares at him, heated, and does not even acknowledge Eames' projection still on the floor, propped on his elbows as if at any moment he will spring up and take the both of them out.

"Once, huh?" he snaps at Arthur, and when Eames starts to rise Cobb turns on him just as angrily. "Back off Eames," he warns, low and dangerous. The projection stares up at him from beneath lowered brows and says nothing, heat and fury stirring in eyes that have gone dark grey. Arthur covers his face with a hand, the other coming to his bruised throat and rubbing the pain out. "This is _goddamn_ irresponsible, Arthur," Cobb says hotly. "I trusted you to have better judgment than this."

Arthur's voice is rough, and his hand still massages his throat. "Like I trusted you after Mal jumped-"

"All the more reason why you should know what you're doing is beyond stupid of you," Cobb cuts him off. "I don't know how many times you've been here, but there is _nothing to reconcile_, Arthur. There is nothing that will fix this, or bring him back, not here, no matter how many times you let him beat the _life_ out of you—"

"It's not what it looks like," Arthur's eyes have fallen back to the silent Eames, and the projection just watches him, eerily. "This is the first time I've changed anything, the first time he's ever…" he trails off, and does not have much more to say. "You shouldn't have come here."

"You _should_ have come to _me_," Cobb continues, though he deeply sympathizes with the Point Man. His voice lowers, as if the projection is a real person, an outsider, but not the subject of discussion. "You and Eames? You and _Eames_, Arthur? All this time and you never thought you could tell me? Even after…?" He does not say the words, and he doesn't have to. Arthur's expression weakens anyway, and he remains silent.

"He never told anyone," comes the voice from behind them, quieter, softer, and Cobb still does not turn to look at him. "Could barely look at himself in a mirror after he was done with me," Eames continues darkly, and under-towing the bitterness is hurt: a sadness neither the projection, nor his late counterpart chose to fully acknowledge in life. "Why on earth would he want to tell you, then… his precious Cobb," the trance between the two men does not break, but Eames' projection begins to move like a predator towards Cobb. "His precious Cobb…"

Cobb watches Eames begin to close the distance between them, seeing the violence, and disgust, and the hate and the love spread darkly across the projection's face. He knows is to come next, but he stands his ground, and only shakes his head at Eames—a bizarre pity for the unreal stirring in him. "Not today," he says, and Eames wears an expression he so often saw on his projection of Mal: delicate features contorting in confusion, and longing, and a desire to not be left alone in the subconscious, even after the dream has ended. "Time's up."

Cobb wakes a moment after Arthur does, stirring out of the darkness left after the dream. Arthur slowly pulls his distant gaze from the wall to regard Cobb silently. Instead of filling the empty space between them with useless words he simply shifts over on the couch, close enough to Arthur so that their legs just barely graze one another. Cobb does not touch him. He knows that is not what Arthur wants: a mess of tearful hugging, rocking back sobs, and holding someone he wishes was Eames. Arthur, even after having his dream invaded, is still the private person he always has been. So Cobb asks nothing, says nothing, and does nothing but sit beside his Point Man in silence, to be there for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Sorry it took me a while. So far things have, more or less, been following a loose chronological order, but from here onward it may get a little confusing. I'm going to try my best to keep it clear. Thank you all for your lovely feedback! I hope you're having as much fun reading as I am writing it.

**PART IV**

**TERESINA, BRAZIL **

**[ 7 years, 1 month ago ]**

His phone goes off at something like four in the morning.

"Hello," he half-mumbles, and on the other end of the line there is only a muffled whimpering, and soft a sob crackled with static. Arthur props himself higher on his elbows, and repeats himself more firmly into the phone. "Hello?"

"Arthur," it is a feminine voice, cracked with tears and panic. Eva. "Arthur, I think you… better get down here." Arthur straightens, fully awake now, and gets out of bed, fishing in his closet for clothing. Eva doesn't like him. Eva hardly acknowledges him when Eames invites them out for dinner, or drinks, and if she is calling now it is important. Between static and choked breaths, she continues. "He's—he's not moving, he's not even blinking. He's breathing, I don't know what to do, I can't call emergency—" she cannot phone the authorities because there would be too many questions. Leave it to Eames to inform his flavor-of-the-week on every detail of his criminal career.

"I'm coming," is all he says before he hangs up, and throws on an undershirt and heads for the door. The elevator sloths its way down two floors, and when it finally opens he all but runs down the hallway of the hotel. He is uncertain of what to expect—they aced the Hamilton job last night, and it meant a lot of money for each team-member, enough to take the next six months off. Eames celebrated extravagantly at the prospect of having ham instead of turkey in his sandwich for lunch, and so thinking him to spend their last night in Teresina quietly and without incident was just plain stupid.

Arthur knocks on the door and Eva answers, looking quite ragged but still beautiful. He says nothing as he pushes past her into the room and finds Eames on the bed, naked save for a pair of dark blue boxer-briefs. He is strewn across it with his arms spread wide and his eyes half-lidded, rolled up high. He looks sunken this way, distorted, his inked torso and chest rising and falling so slowly Arthur cannot see it at first, and with a calm urgency he presses a hand to Eames' forehead. There is a fire blazing beneath his skin, and Arthur does not look at Eva as he thumbs one of Eames' eyelids, pulling it upward: his pupils are so dilated his eyes look black.

"What'd he take?"

"I…" Eva chews her thumb nervously, and is shaking. "The—the bouncer said it was, ah, it was supposed to be E, um, about—about twenty minutes ago—"

"Idiot," Arthur breathes, and slides onto the bed behind Eames, pulling him upward with some difficulty—he is already larger than Arthur, and is dead weight. He manages to get him sitting up, and his skin is hot and wet against Arthur, who gently pushes him forward so that his head hangs limply between his shoulders. "I need something to put down his throat, we've got to get him to vomit."

"Like what?"

"A toothbrush, a pen, a comb, _something_, come on!" he snaps, and Eva rummages through her purse clumsily and thrusts a tube of mascara into his palm. Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes—what a fucking pair—and one of his hands snakes around Eames' front, feeling soft lips and slippery teeth as he forces his fingers between them and maneuvers the mascara tube into his mouth. This is about to get disgusting, fast, but he grits his teeth and guides the tube slowly to the back of Eames' tongue. Nothing. Arthur does roll his eyes at the idea of Eames having a very stubborn gag reflex (go fucking figure), and pushes further, lacking the gentleness of the first attempt. Eames shudders dully, then gags, then wretches. He does this three times before anything comes up, and then white foamy vomit spurts out of him, running over the back of Arthur's hand and down his forearm. He bites back what would have been a very un-manly yelp and looks away.

Eva is beginning to look rather green herself, and covers the bottom half of her face with a hand.

Arthur presses himself against Eames' back and shoulders, pushing him a little further over so that he won't be _completely_ covered in vomit by the end of this, and thrusts the tube further into the mess. Eames coughs this time, and has apparently regained consciousness, because after the second round—this one containing more white froth and whatever alcohol Eames had drank at the club—he gasps, shudders, and is able to weakly break away from Arthur. "_Fuck_," he half-coughs, painfully, and an unexpected third round comes up, spattering over his bare legs and Arthur's pajama pants. "Fuck, I'm—sorry," he groans, and ends up leaning against Arthur again, exhausted, and heaving ragged breaths.

"Eva," Arthur says firmly. "Towels. And ice, he needs to be cooled down." The slender, black-haired woman is sliding into her slippers before he even finishes his sentence. Eames is slowly becoming more aware of the situation, and he sees the vomit trail down his chest, and on Arthur's pants. His palm slides over his face.

"Oh _God_," he says in a rough, throaty voice. Arthur tenses.

"What—you need to throw up again?"

"No," Eames whines, somewhat brokenly. "You'll never fuck me now. Never living this one down."

"Can you stand?" he asks, ignoring the statement. Eames nods mutely. He is entirely too out of it, and Arthur is too caught in some distant calculation on what it is going to take to move Eames into the shower to notice Eva hesitating by the door. She sees something they do not: the way her lover leans into the other man, and a _look_ in his glazed, bleary eyes that she cannot quite place. _Sadness_, the thought crosses her mind, briefly. Arthur, in turn, for all the disgust written across his otherwise expressionless visage is strangely tender, and gentle, whilst goading Eames to come off the bed and get into the shower. Eva does not linger in the moment. She has seen enough.

After about twenty minutes getting from the bed to the bathroom, and easing the Forger out of his boxers and into the shower it became obvious that Eames was not going to stand in the shower. So he sat, beneath the falling water, legs against his chest and his arms loosely draped over his knees. Arthur cleaned himself up before coming to sit beside the tub—it had been long enough for Eva to have gotten ice and returned, and he felt it was safe to assume she was probably on her way to the airport. Eames does not seem so broken up about it, and says nothing, so Arthur does.

"You were shot a year ago," Eames stirs. His hair is plastered to his head, and his eyes are squinted under the waterfall. "That wasn't enough? You have to keep pushing that envelope, don't you?" Arthur's voice is rising but Eames manages a tiny smile, and closes his eyes again. The water droplets cling to his eyelashes, the scruff on his chin and above his wet lips. "I get the thrill, I do, the idea of going to the edge and teetering and then coming back. But you're going to end up dead, Eames. And there will be no thrill to follow that."

"I knew I wasn't going to die," Eames tilts his head back to let the water hit his face head- on, and opens his mouth to catch it. Arthur scowls, and looks away.

"Oh, okay. So this train-wreck cluster fuck of drugs and drinking is all just to forget then?"

Eames spits the water out, and reaches over to turn the faucet, and shut it off. "I don't drink to forget. I drink to remember. Remember what I am. What I've done," Arthur's scowl deepens, and so Eames does not explain himself further. He runs his hands over his face, shakes off the remaining moisture from his hair, and accepts the offered towel. "I'm sorry," he says after a moment. "For this—this, it was… it was stupid."

Arthur nods to the front door, where Eva had long since disappeared. "Just… get someone else to do your dirty work." He feels skin on his, sliding over the back of his hand and curling damp, warm fingers around it. Arthur does not react, save for turning his head enough so that he may look straight ahead and regard Eames through the corner of his eye.

"There is no one else," Eames says softly. "I don't have anyone else but you. There's only you." Arthur sees that _look_ in his eyes, and resigns to turning his head to fully look at Eames, allowing the other man to have this moment. Eames pauses, but does not immediately release Arthur. Instead, he gives his head a little shake, and the smile widens. "But don't worry, love. I won't do this again. Suppose I'll start acting my age." He takes his hand back, and Arthur quickly rises to yank down another towel. He drapes it over Eames' shoulders and grips his forearm to help him up. Eames does not bother to cover his modesty, and clamps a hand on Arthur's shoulder to steady himself. Another quick smile. "Suppose I should start taking care of _you_, for a change."

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[ 5 years, 11 months ago]**

"Do you need me to hold your hair back?" Arthur laughs hard when he manages to dodge Eames' fist, and steps back lightly, waving his upturned hands at the other man in mocking invitation. "Come on, I don't mind, really—I think it's _charming_ to puke and piss all over yourself because you're so _fucking wasted_ you can't even—" This time Eames gets a rather impressive hit in, and Arthur is briefly thrown off balance. He tries to stop the spinning in his head, and manages to do so in time to duck another swing, and deliver a hard blow into Eames' solar plexus. Eames' eyes go very wide before he coughs, hard and hollow, and doubles long enough for Arthur to easily grab his shoulders and deliver the little shove that sends him stumbling to the floor.

They have been at this for the best part of an hour now, and an outsider would have trouble determining who was winning and who was losing. Arthur is quicker on his feet than Eames, because he is physically smaller and leaner, and this helps him stay out of the other man's reach for a good portion of their sparring session. Eames, on the other hand, has the bulk of more muscle on his side, brute-strength, and when he _does_ manage to hit Arthur it sends him reeling. At this point it is almost a draw—both men are bloodied, and bruised, and yet far from tiring. This is good—their upcoming job is going to involve a lot more violence than the usual variety. Arthur has strongly urged each team member to begin strengthening their pain tolerances, rage tolerances, and hand-to-hand combat skills.

That, and he really, _really_ wanted to beat on Eames for a while. He cannot exactly place why, but lately whenever the other man so much as glances in his direction he wants to beat him unconscious. There is an aggression racing inside him, and he wants nothing more than to put it all on Eames.

"Oh, get back up," he leers, and turns his head to spit out a mouthful of blood as Eames staggers back onto his feet, unmitigated rage contorting his features and making him look positively deadly. "Sorry if you were expecting me to coddle you, _again,_ but I'm really tired of picking up after you," Arthur's ugly, bloodied grin only widens when Eames slowly begins to move toward him. "Hurt your feelings, _darling_? _Pet_? Something bothering you, _love_?" he taunts, and before he can artfully side-step again one of Eames' big hands snaps out and seizes his collar. With sheer momentum he is able to slam Arthur into wall, once, twice, and finally so hard that the back of his head painfully collides with it and Arthur sees stars.

"Well, see, it's not half as charming when _you_ say it," Eames snarls. "_Arthur_." The Point Man does not think. He backhands Eames across the face, as hard as he can, but only manages to send spit and blood flying to the side. Eames does not move, but when he turns back he is grimacing—and laughing.

"The fuck are you laughing at?" Arthur spats, searing anger rising off him like heat over a tarmac.

"At you-because you loved picking up my messes. You got off on it," Eames does not release his vice-grip and only leans in closer. "You _love_ being my white knight."

"_You're fucking crazy, you're—_" Arthur is utterly indignant, scrabbling for words that his brain will not allow to surface. Eames thrusts him back again, and his swollen, wet lips are suddenly on Arthur's ear, sending a hot prickle over every bruise and laceration on his body. Arthur turns his head away as much as he can, but Eames follows, and whispers something Arthur said two years ago, on a cold Chicago sidewalk to a frightened paramedic.

"_If he dies, you die," _Eames' teeth are against his skin as his lips move. "_If he dies, everyone dies._"

There it is. Arthur is ripped wide open, and he is hollow, and feelings and emotions and thoughts and reactions he has no name for course through him, like acid running through his veins, and the dream begins to crumble around them. Eames realizes what is happening, and his grip is loosened just enough to give Arthur an opportunity to jaw him hard, and bring them both falling onto the floor.

Cracks begin to turn into canyons in the walls, the floor, but Arthur keeps hitting Eames as hard as he can. It is a moment before Eames has the presence of mind to arrest Arthur's bloody fist and twist it hard enough to make him stumble onto his side, and the Forger follows suit.

The rage has not cleared, but has turned into something else entirely—every bit as intense, and blinding, and controlling. Arthur fists Eames' hair, and pulls so that Eames' mouth is on his, and the kiss is rough, and starving and bleeding, crushed together in such desperate need that they ignore the chunks of plaster and drywall falling around them. Eames understands that this is not a chance that will come around again, and so he makes the most of it by taking control, moving over Arthur and crushing him to the ground, unwilling to let him escape now. Arthur gasps into his mouth when the Forger's hands slide beneath his shirt, palms hot and fingers eager to scratch and dig into him.

Arthur tries to say something, anything, but Eames does not let him—he drowns the weak protests with another urgent kiss, and in return Arthur grabs the sides of his head and takes in every taste, every ridge of teeth, every corner of Eames' mouth with his tongue. There are hands at his belt, tugging and pulling, and nails just above his waist band in a frenzied effort to reach the erection straining against his pants, and Arthur cannot process what is happening. Eames breaks the kiss, and quickly turns his attention to his work, yanking the trousers down ferociously and creating glorious friction with his palm, massaging the hard flesh through the black material. Arthur releases a panicked moan, and it catches Eames' attention before it turns into an uncomfortable whimper.

There is suddenly a revolver in Arthur's hand, and as he presses it to his temple Eames lunges forward, his short, desperate cry echoing around in his head just before he pulls the trigger.

Arthur jolts on the lawn chair, awake. The dream comes rushing back to him, and his fingers scrabble at the IV in his arm, trying to unhook himself before Eames can follow him. The chair next to him stirs, and he yanks the IV out, springing to his feet without even looking at the slightly dazed man he intends to leave behind. Eames jerks the IV out, gracelessly flinging it to the side, and he rises rather clumsily into a quick steps.

"Arthur, wait—_Arthur_!"

Arthur is halfway to the door when Eames grabs his arm, and he freezes, wrenching it free of the other's grasp and holding both arms up. "Don't touch me," he warns, hoarsely, and Eames retreats a step.

"What the hell was that?"

"I told you before, I've told you a thousand fucking times, I'm not—" even in this heated moment, Arthur cannot bring himself to say the words. He won't turn to look at the other man, and digs his nails into the top of his head, trying to regain a grip on reality—his erection is still there, prominent, and he cannot will it away. "I'm not like you, I can't… _be_ what you want me to be." At the risk of getting a tooth knocked out, Eames reaches out and touches his shoulder, gently, and moves his thumb up and down over the soft material of Arthur's button-down shirt. When it seems that Arthur is not going to react violently, Eames makes the even braver decision to wrap both arms around the Point Man, and step closer so that he is pressed into his back. His cheek comes to rest on Arthur's shoulder, and he can feel the muscles begin to relax.

"You are what I want you to be," he murmurs into the nape of his neck. The lean shoulders rise, and fall, and relax against him, but Arthur is still silent. "You're everything I want you to be, darling. You aren't gay, or straight, or bisexual, you're Arthur. You're the Point Man of our operation, you're positively fucking frightening, absolutely amazing at what you do, and that doesn't change. It never will." Eames loosens his grip, and places a tender, chaste kiss on the side of his neck. "Can you turn around now? I feel like I'm having a conversation with myself."

Slowly, as though learning to use his muscles for the very first time, Arthur turns, and when Eames' hands come to rest on his biceps he exhales, softly, and allows the other man to press his forehead into the underside of his chin. Arthur is still rigid in his hold, but he closes his eyes, and concentrates on the soft lips brushing against his collar bone, and the light pressure of gentle kisses working up his throat. In between these, Eames is making soft soothing noises in the back of his throat, and when he has kissed all along Arthur's jaw line he pauses at the tight line of his mouth.

"See?" he murmurs, quietly, so close that Arthur can feel the fullness of his lips speak the words. "Still alive. Both of us. The world has not ended, Arthur, you can open your eyes." Arthur does, slowly still, and when they are locked on Eames he is able to move his palms up over his hips, up until he is lightly touching the strong, hard muscles beneath his arms. Eames kisses him, eyes open, and when it ends he leans his forehead into Arthur's. "Relax—your precious Cobb is not hiding in a corner somewhere watching in horror. I promise you that."

"Thank God," Arthur's voice is a little shaky, but he manages a half-smile, and a nervous laugh. "He and I have seen each other's dicks more times than we can count, he'd shit a fucking brick." Eames laughs, and it encourages Arthur to laugh a little louder—the ice is broken, and this time, when Eames kisses him again he kisses back. It starts slow, and as the moments pass the pace picks up, and they have a natural rhythm when their mouths are at each other. It is a perfect series of movements, wet lips opening and closing on one another, one neck craning to reach the innermost center of the other's mouth, tongues rolling and teeth bruising.

The heat between them begins to crescendo, and despite feeling Arthur start to tense again when his hand moves down his torso he begins to wiggle his fingers between Arthur and his belt. Arthur groans—something similar to what occurred in the dream, and Eames ignores the warning, sliding his palm downward and over the curve of the other man's erection. He does not penetrate the boxer-briefs just yet, because he feels Arthur twist, ever-so slightly, and does not know if it is out of pleasure, or panic. Eames is determined not to break the kiss this time, and his other hand cradles the Point Man's cheek, thumb stroking lightly on the spot just below his eyelashes. When his other thumb runs over the damp head of Arthur's cock he suddenly jerks, and the kiss is painfully broken.

Eames thinks quickly this time, and does not let Arthur pull away. "Hey, hey—you're alright, you're fine—" he breathes, and Arthur's hands are up again, the "don't touch me" signal, and so Eames refrains any touch of a sexual nature. He gently takes Arthur's biceps again, and tries to keep him still. "No, no, please—please, just give us a chance. Stay. Just stay."

Arthur has that nervous smile again, and shakes his head, pink beginning to burn across the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just—" he cuts himself off, and is still not looking at Eames, trying to find the appropriate words to describe his feelings. After a moment, all he can come up with is, "You have a dick. You …you have a dick."

"Yes, and if you would give me more than _four seconds_ you would see just how much fun they can be, darling,"

"Ah…" Arthur hesitates and briefly wonders where all of his previous fury had gone. He inhales, sharply, through his nose as if he is revving himself up for something that is either going to be amazing, or the most awkward experience of his life. "Okay… okay. I'm good."

"You sure?" At this point, Eames' erection is getting _quite_ uncomfortable, and it takes all the control he has to ignore the crawling beneath his skin. Arthur nods, and Eames kisses him hard on the mouth again, so grateful, and maybe a little too eager. When Arthur is moaning again, and his hand is once again rubbing against the bulge in his slacks, Eames slides down the length of his body until he is on his knees before the other man, and begins to work at the belt buckle. He watches Arthur's face, which is painfully torn between lust and what looks like fucking agony. Eames gets the belt undone, and even manages to slide the trousers partway down. He leans in, and drags his tongue across the hot, hard material, and Arthur groans low in his throat.

Then he sees the look on Arthur's face. His eyes are screwed shut so tightly, and his teeth are clenched so hard that he looks like he is about to have a panic attack, the likes of which the world has never seen. Eames closes his mouth, and remains on his knees, and one of the dark eyes opens, and then both are on him. They are even somewhat apologetic.

"Right. We'll start with the basics, then," Eames sighs, and accepts the fact that he will be jerking off for dear life later. Arthur seems very confused, but the other man takes his hand and leads him over to one of the larger lawn chairs. It is a rather awkward, tight fit, but they both manage to lay on it. Eames settles comfortably on his side next to Arthur, who follows his example. They are facing one another, and the wide room is so still and silent Arthur can hear his blood pulsing off the sides of his skull, but Eames just takes his hand and places it on his thigh.

"Start here," he says. "Close your eyes if you have to, and don't think, just feel. I won't touch you unless you ask me, and you're finally comfortable with my body," then Eames reaches out and cups the side of Arthur's face. "Well, that's a lie, I _am_ going to kiss you while you explore. Tell me if I should stop."

Arthur carries this February morning with him for years to come. He remembers every single word Eames said, every breath and every lingering stare, every smile and every brush of his lips and every slide of his tongue over every part of his body. He carries this morning with him because it seemed as though every February after that he was never quite as happy, never even half as happy. To remember it lulled him to sleep on very dark nights, when all he could think of was the horrible things they had said and did to one another. It would sustain him, and give him the strength to endure what was to come.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **A few changes: there are now flashbacks, I suppose, little brief ones and they are in italics. It may get confusing. Thank you all for your encouragement, I am deeply flattered by all of your kind remarks, and as always, constructive criticism is welcome! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

**PART V**

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[Now—9:43 on a Thursday night] **

"Long flight, was it?"

Arthur shrugs, and swishes the drink he has been nursing for an hour. The ice has not even started to melt. He frowns, slightly, and remembers to fix that next time. Eames takes a long swig of his and sets it down, coming behind Arthur and working the tension out of his shoulders with his big, warm hands. Arthur groans, and leans into the touch.

"I slept through most of it," he says. "Dreamt… through most of it."

"Cobb-approved dreams?"

"Cobb approved."

"Was I in them?" Eames' voice is bright, delightful, and remains so, even as Arthur casts a shadow over this time and place.

"Always," he murmurs. "I don't have dreams without you in them anymore."

"Any dirty details worth sharing?" Eames' hands work slowly at the hard curves of his shoulders, kneading, comforting, and easing out hours of flight time, and weeks of depression. Arthur snorts, lightly, and turns his face up to look at his dead lover, but only raises his eyebrows, and says nothing. Eames mirrors his expression, only with ten times the enthusiasm. "Really? That bad, hm?"

"Memories, mostly," Arthur recounts, and turns back to his drink. "Remember the first time? I was like a toddler getting a shot."

"Practice made perfect. Besides, I loved your Bambi-style of love making. Made everything so entertaining at first," Eames leans down and puts his mouth on Arthur's throat, pushing his tongue out far past his lips until the pressure is so hard Arthur reaches up and starts pulling him down over the back of the couch. Eames allows himself to be tumbled into the other's lap, and squirms around until he is comfortably resting his head on Arthur's thighs, and dangling his legs off the arm. Arthur's hand finds his hair, and winds his fingers through the freshly showered, short pieces. "So. What exactly does Cobb want you to do tomorrow?"

Arthur's glow—the one that was barely there to begin with, in this poorly recreated world—fades when Eames stares up at him curiously. It is such a beautiful expression, on such a beautiful face. He touches it, softly, running finger tips over his forehead, down his cheek and nose, and over Eames' full, soft pout. "Clear your place of personal items. Things that could be linked back to us, make sure it hasn't been ransacked yet," his thumb moves across Eames' lower lip, and the other man takes it in his mouth, briefly, before posing another question.

"Oh… and nobody is curious as to why you are the only one with a key to my London flat?"

"Cobb knows," Arthur replies, steadily, and notes that the projection does not seem to remember the violent experience that happened over a week ago when he dreamed of St. Petersburg. This sparks a very smug reaction from Eames, who draws an arm up to put behind his head, rather arrogantly. He grins.

"Go figure I would be dead before you'd admit to the world that my dick tastes like a jolly rancher."

"There aren't many people left in the world who don't already know that," Arthur hears a laugh roll up out of him—a real laugh, however brief—as he dodges a swat from Eames. "Harlot."

"Everyone has to start somewhere, love," Eames replies, gracefully, and then his voice is all musical laughter. "That's what I always say. Remember when—"

Arthur wakes to the sound of a blaring alarm, and rises half-heartedly out of the uncomfortable hotel room chair. Cobb will be arriving in the morning to pick him up, and begin the ravaging of what was once his favorite place on Earth.

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[ Now—9:17 A.M. ]**

Arthur is grateful Ariadne is there with them, to shed the silent tears, and run off into one of the unlived bathrooms every so often to regroup. Cobb does not speak to Arthur with pity, or sympathy that can be seen or heard up close, but he takes care to box up the more personal items before Arthur has a chance to run across them. On the table in the living room there is a half-empty cup of coffee, and a stack of photos. Arthur sits down, heavily, and half-listens to Cobb and Ariadne's conversation about when they should depart for Paris. She graduated the other day. He thumbs through the mismatched images, some of them spanning months apart. Years even. He wondered when Eames had found time to finally get them printed.

"They're all of you."

Arthur's heart leaps in his throat, and before he can stuff the photos into his box Ariadne is coming to sit beside him. There is nothing intrusive, or wanting in her demeanor, and so when she reaches for the top print Arthur disregards the urge to snatch it back. "Where was this?"

The semi-faded print features a younger Arthur, perhaps unaware there is a camera focused on him, lounging in a wide chair in a hospital room. He is looking at something, or someone, at the side of the bed and his face is easy, in the middle of what looked like it had been a stream of warm, sincere laughter. Cobb is also in the shot, a phone in his hand, and while he is mostly turned away from the camera he is sure to give it his best, leveled scowl.

"Chicago," Arthur clears his throat, to ensure his voice does not break. "St. Catherine's."

"Was Eames in the hospital?" she asks, taking into account that Eames is not in the photograph.

Arthur nods. "Yeah. Took two in the chest outside of a bar in Chicago, the day before Christmas Eve, eight years ago," he doesn't really want to continue with the story, and is grateful when Ariadne does not ask him to elaborate. She only leans in a little, neck craning to see the prints beneath the one of them in the hospital. Arthur does not stop her from fingering one, and sliding it out just enough to see yet another image of him: standing in a dark, quiet street of downtown New Orleans, during Christmas some years later. His hands are in his pockets, and there is a shy, boyish smile across his face, crinkled eyes glued to his shoes. He is surrounded by twinkled lights frozen in time, and the glow of a street lamp is all that betrays the rest of his body.

"_You're ridiculous,"_

"_You're ridiculous, you won't stop moving," Eames frowns into his camera: a tiny black box he almost always carries with him. "It won't steal your soul if you hold still."_

"_Men like me don't pose for pictures," Arthur replies, hands in his pockets, wearing a hard expression. His long sleeves are not quite enough to combat the chill of even a New Orleans winter, and he concentrates on not locking his arms so they remain closer to his sides. He doesn't want Eames offering his coat, and then getting offended when he refuses. _

"_Oh, 'men like you'?"_

"_Men like me. Men who make thousands of dollars per job and yet only have a tiny apartment in California that never has any food in it, because the consequences of said jobs generally result in my having to get out of town for a while before I'm gunned down, or shanked on my way to take a piss in the middle of the night. Men who invade the dreams of others to extract their deepest secrets. Men who—"_

"_Men who cannot seem to part with a certain Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle bedspread that is still folded up in the closet can certainly pose for pictures," Eames' tongue is pinned beneath his teeth now as he diverts all focus to the shot, but a grin begins to form. "Oh yes, Arthur—I saw it."_

_A snap, but no flash. Eames still manages to capture the smile that made the picture worth saving. _

"_It was a gift," Arthur tries for an excuse, still unable to look up from the toe of his shoe. _

"_Ah, but some gifts aren't meant to be—"_

Ariadne takes the stack of pictures out of Arthur's hands before the rest of them can drop onto the floor, and bends to collect the ones that have. She does not ask where he went just then, or why he was so lost in a moment that ended five years ago. He watches her place them in his box, and finally glances up when Cobb enters the room.

"We're done here," he says, and Arthur comes to his feet after scooping the half-empty box up in both arms. He pauses to glance at the coffee cup, just sitting on the wooden table without a coaster. He asks Ariadne to dump it out in the sink on their way out. She does, but when she feels the barest hint of warmth still clinging to the thick mug, Ariadne decides to keep that little detail to herself.

**PARIS, FRANCE**

**[Now—9:17 PM]**

Honoring Ariadne's graduation had been split into several separate celebrations: one for herself and her school friends to paint the town in a such a way that Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten would have been put to shame, and a slightly more formal one for family and close friends to stand around, drink wine, and congratulate her one by one on her achievement. The third was the party she had looked forward to the most, that included her team, her closest friends, save one. Cobb, Arthur, Yusuf, and even Mr. Saito had made an appearance.

Running an empire did not leave much of a margin for spontaneous visits to the team's gatherings, but Saito had made room for this one. It was a total surprise to Ariadne, so when he appeared at the door with an extravagant flower arrangement and possibly the most expensive bottle of scotch ever created she squealed uncharacteristically, and threw her arms around his neck. Saito dipped to return the embrace, saying something of congratulations and smiling as the petite young woman glowed up at him. He greeted Yusuf with a hand shake, and Cobb with an even firmer one that turned into a warm hug.

Arthur was given a solemn stare, and a strong hand on his shoulder.

"You have many regrets," Saito speaks low, and soft. "I do not wish to see them consume you."

"Thank you, Mr. Saito," Arthur reaches up to grip the other's arm in return. "But Mr. Eames is not the first friend I have lost as a consequence of this job." Saito regards him quietly for a moment, studying his face in that keen, knowing way he sometimes has about him. He almost looks as if there is something else he wants to say, against his better judgment, but only nods, and drops the subject.

The rest of the evening is mainly spent drinking the scotch, and catching Saito up on the highlights of the past year's jobs. Ariadne does most of the talking, making grand, excited gestures with her hands to describe the dreamscapes and not holding back a single detail. The conversation wanders then to some of the stranger dreamscapes and subconscious they have encountered since the Fischer job, and Arthur feels his insides tighten when the Diehl job is mentioned. Ariadne is a little drunk at this point, and when all the faces suddenly turn solemn, and Arthur's expression gets even tighter, she realizes her mistake.

"I'm sorry, I…" she says, cheeks burning bright pink with embarrassment, and drink. "I'm sorry." Her glassy eyes flick over to Arthur, only for a half-second, before she silently takes her seat again. Cobb clears his throat, and leans forward to the coffee table to pick his drink up.

"No, that's all right. Here—" He lifts the glass. "To Ariadne, and her brilliant career," when Cobb looks at her and smiles as he sips his drink, she glows again, "And," Cobb stands this time. Movement shifts slowly around him as the others follow. "to absent friends."

"To absent friends," they all murmur together. The scotch breaks against Arthur's upper lip as he drinks, and burns along the length of his throat.

"_Yeah_,"

_This is how Arthur usually answers his phone, even without glancing at the incoming number. He does not need to—the long pause on the end of the other line tells him everything he needs to know, and he comes very close to hanging up. Instead he exhales through his nose, and unscrews the cap from the scotch bottle before taking a quick sip. It's sharp, bitter, sour, and burns as it runs into his belly. Irritated, he repeats himself firmly, "Hello?"_

"_Suppose I don't really deserve a call," it is spoken rather quickly, as though Eames had been contemplating hanging up as well, just before deciding to respond. _

"_Where are you?" Arthur sounds every bit disinterested as he actually is. _

"_Glasgow." _

"_What the fuck are you doing in Glasgow?"_

_Eames takes a long breath. It comes out as more of a sigh. "Thought I would have some quiet time."_

"_In Glasgow?"_

"_I was severely misinformed." Arthur lets Eames' attempt at humor stew in the silence between them, and when the voice comes again it is a little quieter. "I'm sorry, all right?" _

_There is a sting of guilt when the words hit him, because Arthur is not entirely sure Eames should be the only one who is sorry. He keeps insisting they are friends, and Eames lets him over and over a thousand times before he finally snaps. When he breaks Arthur retaliates hard enough to make sure it is a thousand and one times before he breaks again. He swore he would work on that, after St. Petersburg. He swore that, if nothing else, he would not let it escalate into another violent spat. _

_Eames had gone too far. He had spent an entire day skulking around the warehouse, playing footsie under their chairs and stealing little grabs and gropes behind the others' backs. That was not how he took it too far. Eames has done that for years, but now they are in a physical relationship, one Arthur wants desperately to keep under wraps, and so he feels that every little touch or comment throws a spotlight on him. He does not brush them off like he used to, he gets angry, and humiliated at the prospect of another team member noticing how hard he gets when Eames leans in and teases him. _

_He felt rather vulnerable when, after the team scattered for an hour lunch, he and Eames skipped the meal all together and he was fucked over the bathroom sink. Everything about it—the 'right under their noses' location of the bathroom, the fact that Eames wanted so badly to be the one who got to top, and the way he pushed Arthur against the sink while he performed so that he could watch the Point Man see himself in the mirror and look away—was designed to conjure Arthur's deepest fears of being discovered. _

_Perhaps Eames thought that the moment Arthur chose to release, hot and heavy into the Forger's palm, he would, instead of trying to keep things quick and clean, come to realize this was something worth having out in the open. Or, perhaps Eames had finally gotten fed up with being just a shadow in Arthur's life, and wanted to make a new, sharper impression. _

_Whatever it was, it left Arthur shaking with weakness and rage, dithered in sweat and very uncomfortable. Which, of course Eames sensed, and instead of light little jabs he became increasingly vicious throughout the day—Arthur had finally exploded at him, and, cornered, Eames lashed out like a wounded animal, snarling a myriad of insults and desperate, vague references to what they were. Ariadne was the only one in the room, and promptly left when the argument started. She never mentioned it again, nor did she acknowledge the heavy silence between the two later in the day, and the blood that stubbornly trickled at the bottom of Arthur's nose. _

"_It's not a big deal," is Arthur's steady reply, and there is a soft, barely audible moan on the other line. "Don't sound so fucking sad. Are you drunk?"_

"_No," comes the voice. "What are you doing right now?"_

"_Night cap," Arthur sniffs the mouth of the bottle, before pouring it into the glass on the counter. "I'm pretty tired, actually." _

_The long silence returns, longer this time, and even heavier. He hears Eames shift, probably between hotel bed covers, and adds nothing to his previous statement. He doesn't really know what to say, because he knows the reason behind the call. It's Eames' birthday today, and he is alone in Glasgow, on his birthday. Eames is too stubborn to even mention that it is his birthday, reviling the idea of having to tell Arthur such things, and Arthur is too stubborn to admit that he remembers such things even when he wishes he did not. So he says nothing else, and Eames quietly retreats from the conversation. _

"_I'm sorry to keep you up," he says._

"_No, it's—it's fine. I'll talk to you soon," Arthur takes a sip of his drink, and loudly sucks the droplets of sour scotch from his upper lip. "Cobb wants us in Philly next month. Take care of yourself 'til then, Eames."_

"_Goodnight, Arthur," it is a sound that is resigned, and uncertain. Arthur waits to hear the click on the other end before he sets his own phone down, and leans against the counter. _

_Happy Birthday, he thinks, and the unspoken words echo around in his head, even as he sleeps._

Arthur realizes that after the toast he is the only one standing. He retreats back to his hotel room shortly thereafter; to sleep, and pray to an unseen, higher power that he may dream again, and that the dream will be a pure memory, and not be polluted by the guilt and anger that plagues his subconscious.

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[5 Years, 8 Months ago]**

In the weeks following the little incident in the warehouse, Eames had shown extraordinary patience and concern for him.

He departed gracefully when Arthur needed him too, but would still show up at the end of a long day, when they were both certain they would not be discovered by the rest of the team. He would climb into Arthur's bed and do whatever Arthur asked of him, to make him more comfortable with the idea—mostly kissing for the first week, which progressed to groping (Arthur gradually familiarizing himself with the idea of another man jerking him off, while he reciprocated), and by the beginning of the second week he let Eames go down on him.

By the end of the third week, Arthur's gag reflex was improved, to say the least. Eames had suspected for a long time that he would probably need to be the one to bottom when they fucked for the first time. Being as versatile as he was, mostly, and a gentleman, he had allowed Arthur to take control.

It was not a decision he regretted in the least, especially after that first time, when Arthur was completely lost in him. He was tense over the length of his body, but when he released he shuddered, and trembled. Arthur made beautifully desperate sounds in the back of his throat before bringing both hands to the sides of Eames' face, fingers twisting in his parted hair, and his own face ending up buried in the pillow beside it. He had gasped, strangled breaths, and finally allowed himself to collapse onto Eames, skin on skin, hard muscle coming up to pull the leaner frame close, and they had remained that way for long moments after.

Last night, it was Arthur who had surrendered.

He wakes to rumpled sheets, and warm sunlight spilling across his contorted face. He never sleeps past sunrise, and is usually awake in the dark hours pending. When he finds it within him to move, a slow burn spread throughout his body, peaking at his shoulders and the long muscles of his thighs. There is a familiar pain still clinging to him, and when he sits up, a rather unfamiliar one immediately follows.

_There are only ever mere moments of tenderness, brief, fleeting, and they are gone before they begin at times, and so Eames' approach cannot be called such. Bruised lips move across Arthur's skin, down the center of his chest, his torso, and he shivers. Nails and teeth drag, hard, over his hipbone, biting and teasing and hurting, and he shudders. Hands that are rough, and warm, travel behind his back and to his thighs, pull him up, push him down, and he aches. _

_The feeling—the one when they fought in the warehouse, the aggression, and the desperation, and the thing he cannot place—stirs within his core, and writhes, and he does not know how to silence it. Eames is over him, face twisted in a grimace, eyes narrowed on him, and his broad shoulders shake in the darkness as he fights to keep control, to not move and to allow Arthur's body time to accommodate his size. Arthur shakes beneath him, fingers bruising the other's biceps with an iron grip in an attempt to steel himself. _

"_Do-it-just-fucking—do it," he hisses, eyes black and rolling up to stare fixedly at Eames in the dark. His lips are parted, trembling a little, and hovering an inch from Arthur's."Eames—"_

"_..going to hurt..." Eames mumbles, and his eyes have glazed, distant, and the words carry the last of his control in them. _

"_...don't CARE if it hurts," Arthur snaps, a gasping, loud disruption in the sanctity of the still darkness. "FUCKING move—" His voice turns into a wordless, short cry, and he stifles it, breathing hard through his nose as Eames does not linger on the order. He draws out and sinks in, deep, and hard, and finds a brisk rhythm. He asks Arthur if it hurts. Arthur does not immediately answer, and when asked again he lies. Eames' desperate expression has long since vanished, and above Arthur it breaks into a smile. _

"_Darling," he breathes, huskily, and Arthur's hand reaches up to fist his hair and jerk his head, hard, to the side. Looking sideways at the Point Man, Eames has not lost his smile. "Darling I want to LIVE in you—"_

Arthur is suddenly aware that Eames is not beside him. Panic turns into something darker, and he feels a tension rise within him. He languidly pulls himself out of the bed, wincing when he bends to pick up articles of clothing strewn about the floor and begins to dress. He pushes something down, a part of him that feels so like a fool and less than what he was before, and the result is a stone-cold expression.

Arthur moves gingerly across the room, and opens the bedroom door, taking quick steps into the hallway that leads into a tiny ugly kitchen and balking in the frame. Eames is reading the paper, and nursing a cup of black coffee.

He does not realize his expression is now reeling with utter shock until he sees it on Eames' face. The other man's initial smile vanishes, and his eyes turn hard.

"Thought I'd be gone, did you?" he murmurs, in a voice that is soft but not kind. He snaps the paper open to another page, and his eyes go back to it, grazing, disinterested. "I suppose my reputation is my own fault. Coffee?"

"I didn't, I just—" Arthur tries, lamely, and realizes explaining himself is rather futile. He stands there a moment, and may as well be alone in the kitchen for all the attention Eames is now paying him.

The Forger sets down his paper, and stands before the coffee machine, picking up an empty mug and filling it for his guest. Arthur closes the distance between them in a few slow steps, not really knowing what else to do, but Eames does not turn to face him as he sets the mug down. His hand finds the small of the other's back, and he slides it around, until his arm is wrapped around Eames, and he can feel the steady beating of his heart beneath his palm. Eames turns his head, slightly, to look behind him, and Arthur leans in and stoops to press his cheek into the side of his neck. The affection gesture lingers another minute or two, then,

"I'm sorry," Arthur's tone is static, and he presses a kiss to Eames' temple before turning to leave. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Eames."

Striding briskly down the sidewalk beneath Eames' flat, Arthur distantly notes that he should probably offer more of an apology. He probably should have stayed for coffee, but he brushes the idea away without another thought. Another time, perhaps. They have all the time in the world.

**PARIS, FRANCE**

**[Now—8:31 A.M.]**

Cobb closes his suitcase, and sits wearily on the bed. Ariadne stands before him, expectantly, but patient. He shakes his head.

"Who have you told this to?"

"Only you, of course," she is still speaking in a hushed tone, as if concerned Arthur is listening, somehow. "It seems—look, I know it seems utterly crazy and nonsensical. All I'm saying is there is a possibility."

"He would have told us by now," Cobb insists. "Somehow, he would have found a way to let us know. He would have contacted us, surely, by now—"

"Unless he doesn't know to, because he doesn't know we think he's dead," she cuts him off, and folds herself on the bed beside him. "Take in the facts, Cobb. All we know for certain is that there _was_ a hit that night, that the body left behind was unrecognizable, and that none of us have heard from him in weeks. We _know_ that someone was in his flat, before we were, and made coffee. Yes, it could have been anyone, but then why wasn't anything taken, or ransacked, or why wasn't there signs of a squatter? All I'm saying is that there is a possibility, and it should be looked into."

Cobb takes a deep breath, and runs a hand through his hair. "Saito's… 'people' caught up with one of the men hired for the hit," he replies, slowly, and turns to look at her. "He confirmed the kill, Ariadne. Now, unless he was lying, which would make very little sense, the odds are that we _did_ find Eames, we _buried _Eames, we _burned_ Eames, and whoever used Eames' coffee pot was either someone who maintains his place while he is away, or a very clean squatter."

Ariadne is still looking at him, and stubbornly holds the stare until, "I think you should look into it. Or I will, even—I'll get Arthur's help on—"

"I'll do it," Cobb all but snaps. "Under one condition: you keep this entirely to yourself. Do _not_ tell Yusuf anything about it, or Saito, or Miles, and _especially_," He levels Ariadne's gaze, and holds a finger before her face. "Do not tell Arthur. Not a word."

"Not a word," she echoes, softly. "I promise."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: ** A thousand apologies for making you all wait! It has been absolute torture not being able to write, trust me. My personal life has taken a sharp turn into a rather difficult direction, and I'm not losing interest, it is just physically impossible to sit down and write sometimes. I promise I won't walk away from this one! You have my word on that! Anyway, thank you for all the support! I sincerely hope you all enjoy this bit—and I will do my best to update again by the end of the week.

Thank you all again!

**PART VI**

**MIAMI, USA**

**February [ 9 years, 5 months, 3 weeks ago ]**

Arthur is twenty three years old the first time Eames kills for him.

A week after closing the deal, Arthur is heading back to his hotel room after depositing his share of the loot when the Mark's people catch up to him. He is not immediately attacked upon pushing the door open. It is when he is removing his coat that he hears the slow groan of the wooden floor beneath moving feet. Arthur does not allow his body language to give him away, and when the second barely audible step falls he jerks his sidearm to the ready and whirls just in time to put a bullet through the assailant's throat. The young man lets out a silent scream before he crumbles to the floor, clawing at his spurting wound.

Arthur is never fully prepared for this moment: watching another human being suffer in his last moments. It still gets him, every single time, and that is why, instead of securing the rest of the room, he steps closer to shoot the dying man in the head. He does not get the chance, however, before a shot rings out and he has already hit the deck. Arthur spins quickly enough to narrowly avoid the second shot, and to fire off two rounds that sends the other man ducking for cover. He scrambles to get behind the bed, and has all but forgotten the still writhing assassin on the floor.

His mind races, and his blood pulses loudly in his ears as he digs his shoulder into the mattress, trying to creep close enough to the edge to possibly see where the other is. Not even Cobb anticipated any kind of detection by the Mark—so often their presence in the mind of another goes utterly forgotten, or dismissed for exactly what it was, a strange dream. If the Mark understood what had happened to him that would suggest previous knowledge of how extraction worked, and Arthur should have seen it. Arthur should not have missed it in his research. Arthur's mistake may have cost the lives of every member of the team.

He cranes his neck around the corner of the mattress, and luckily the wounded hit man is panicking in the direction of his companion, stretching a hand out. Arthur quickly twists around the mattress to fire off a third shot, and swings heavily back behind his cover. He will be out of rounds soon. After the events of this February morning, even in the waking world, Arthur always remembers to carry two revolvers with him, hidden neatly beneath the lines of his suit. At this moment, however, Arthur refuses to run out of bullets before his opponent, and so he fishes desperately for a card to play.

"Hey," he calls out, deep and hoarse, eyes now on the slowly dying man not four feet away. "Hey—your friend is dying, he needs help. If you take him, and go, this ends now—JESUS!" Arthur is abruptly cut off when a shot explodes in the still air, and he is splattered by the hot blood of the man on the floor as the bullet enters and exits his skull in a half-second. "Son of a bitch," he smears his palm across his eyes, blinking profusely and spitting the others blood out of his mouth. "Have it your way, motherfucker."

Disgusted, he quickly changes his posture, and twists so that both palms are levered against the bottom of the mattress. It rests on a simple metal frame, with a light-enough box spring—the mattress alone will not be too heavy.

He does not breathe, listening for any sign that the other man is approaching. There is a snap, and a rustle of clothing against the wall, and Arthur's adrenaline bursts through his veins as he heaves upward, and throws the mattress as hard as he can in the direction of the sound. A shot goes through the ceiling before he hears the attacker hit the ground. Arthur is over the box spring in seconds and throws his weight onto the mattress—the gunman has lost his weapon, for the moment, but quickly regains his sense, and Arthur's plan backfires. The gunman kicks the mattress away from under them, and reaches out with both hands to seize his wrist.

He is larger than Arthur, by far, but their struggle lasts longer than he planned. The assailant bends his arm backwards and Arthur can only brace a hand against the other's throat, pushing hard enough to choke, but he is bore to the ground anyway. The sheer weight of the other crushes him, and he feels his grip on the gun begin to loosen as the breath leaves his body. Arthur did not want it to come to this, but he has a better chance if the gun is emptied, and so he fires off the last of his shots in succession with all that remains of his control. When the hand on his wrist slackens he thrusts the heel of his palm into soft flesh and cartilage, crushing his attacker's nose and managing to break free of the hold long enough to start quickly dragging himself away.

"Come here you little shit," the man growls, blood and spit gargling between his broken nose and the back of his throat, teeth bared, as he lunges for Arthur with one hand, and pulls a switchblade with the other. "Now I'm going to _gut_ you like a fucking fish, you little—" Arthur's shoe smashes his nose again, and again, but the knife comes down hard into his shin, scraping bone and shredding muscle, and Arthur _screams_. Through the fog of pain he continues to struggle backward, but the gunman has his leg with both hands, knife still imbedded deep. It does not take but a firm yank before he is again at the mercy of the larger man again.

The door cracks. The door shakes, and splinters as the lock is blown off, and the gunman's last expression is a puzzled frown, before he is riddled by four bullets to the back. Eames is a mess. His face is pale and hollowed with deep bruises, bottom lip busted and bleeding, to match the gash over his eyebrow. Yet he stands there with his gun leveled at the still breathing body, calm, collected, and suddenly terrifying, and ferocious as he seizes the man's collar and blows his head off from a point-blank range at the back of his skull. He tosses the remains carelessly to the side, and his eyes finally focus on Arthur.

"Eames," Arthur breathes, and the Forger is crouching next to him in a half-second. He lets his head fall back, and swallows the sickening pain. "Jesus, how did you—"

"Are you okay?" Eames thrusts his weapon into Arthur's shaking hand, and moves lower to grip the knife in his leg. With a quick jerk he pulls it out, and Arthur cannot entirely stifle the cry that rises in his throat. Eames' battered visage is not as soft, or easy with a lingering smile as Arthur is used to. It is twisted into something else, something more intense and almost disgusted. _**PISSED**_, Arthur thinks, before he is hauled to his feet. "This is a _man's_ game, Arthur, you _never_ let it get this far you arrogant bloody amateur!" Eames snaps, and helps Arthur limp as quickly as they can to the door, and down the hallway.

"Oh because you _clearly_ saw this coming," Arthur grits between his teeth. "Which is why you let them redecorate your face—"

"I have killed for you once, Arthur," is the cold reply, as Eames pushes him into the elevator, lacking any sympathy in his touch, and jabs the lobby button with his thumb. "I will not do it again, do you understand?" The Point Man wants to retort, but when he sees the sidelong glance Eames gives him he stops himself. There is a new expression on his face—something that silently suggests that Eames always knew he would survive his own hit, because he is good at these things. He is good at killing, but he does not enjoy it. He simply has a gift. Arthur bites his tongue, and tries not to think about the pain radiating below his knee.

After a moment of silence Eames glances down, and scowls darkly, "And start carrying _two_ guns, for Christ's sake."

About an hour later, Arthur is scrubbing hard at the dried blood that streaks his arms and face and hands. It is caked in the lines of his nails, beneath and between them, and he cannot make it disappear. Eames is leaning against the wall of the dirty little gas station bathroom, and his bruises have begun to fully form amongst his sharp features. He nurses a cigarette, and his eyes, pale grey again, follow Arthur's reflection.

They have not spoken since the elevator, and Arthur is trying not to let his desperation show in his fast, jerking effort to rid his skin of the other's blood, but Eames is staring straight through his crumbling wall. Bizarrely enough, in the very back of his mind he wishes the other more experienced man would offer some comfort. He knows, however, that what is done is done, and he has crossed over a line to a new world, a darker world, and there is no going back. This is the way things are now, and they must be dealt with, accordingly.

Arthur does not know if he is still even seeing the blood run down the drain with the water, or if it is simply ingrained in his memory. His movements slow to a stop as he watches the pale red circle the rusty drain.

"You're still going to see the blood, no matter how hard you scrub," there is nothing of comfort in the Forger's tone. "You're going to feel it on you. Feel it in you. It won't even begin to disappear until you kill again. The first time is… always the hardest to forget." Eames drops the cigarette, and ducks his head as he crushes it out. "The punch line … is that after a while, you begin to take comfort in the fact that it is always the easiest to remember. It reminds you that," Eames' hands find his pockets, and he gives a little half-shrug, and sucks in a deep breath. "…that perhaps you might still be a good man."

Arthur's stare lingers in the sink, and he tilts his head, furrowing his brow. "This isn't my first kill," he murmurs. "I've killed six of the men who have tried to kill me first. I still sleep at night. I still get out of bed. I still do my job. Sometimes I even absolutely believe that mercy would have only resulted in _my_ death, and so I still manage to agree to all consequences of the next job." Arthur finally reaches out and turns the faucet off, and the pipes in the cracked tiles around them groan and shudder. "But the blood is always there."

The Point Man glances up in the mirror to look back at the Forger, and he cannot say that he feels sadness, or sorrow, or regret. He is alright, actually, and the void of feeling, written across his face and settling deep inside him, makes him hollow, and therefore able to cope. It is not in the least bit a comfort.

Eames' eyes narrow, thoughtful, deciding—and although it is nothing of the easy-going, yet debonair expression he carries on his person so frequently, Eames lets go a small smile. Arthur's face is unchanging, and could use a smile, and so Eames wears one for him. He closes the distance between them, and wraps one arm around the back of Arthur's neck, drawing him closer. Arthur does not pull away, does not scowl. He stares past Eames—somewhat unseeing.

"Then I'll remind you, Arthur," the Forger presses a gentle kiss to the Point Man's temple. "That you are still a good man."

Arthur does not just learn, this February morning, to always carry two revolvers on his person. He learns that for all his vices and all his demons, and all his berating and all his scolding, and of all things good and bad, and big and little that creates the dynamic of their rivalry, Eames will become his constant.

**THE NORDIC EMPRESS**

**June [ 2 Years, 6 Months ago ]**

The Harding job was a pleasant change of scenery. Instead of empty warehouses and shifting furtively from one hotel to the next, the Extraction was to take place on a cruise ship—The Nordic Empress.

Arthur told himself his excitement was mainly rooted in getting to finally see the rest of the team again—even if "the rest of the team" only consisted of Cobb, an Australian Architect, Keith, whom he had worked with on more than several occasions, and of course, Eames. After Mal's funeral they had not seen much of one another. The dreamers tended to grieve alone, and Cobb had done just that. He did not grieve long, because he had no other choice but to move forward. He had his children to worry about, and it was upsetting to think that the tragedy of being forced away from them was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Upon boarding, Eames had been the first to break the ice.

"Arthur," he had said, gracefully thumbing through his passports. "Just so that we're very clear—by no means does this count as the romantic getaway you promised to take me on." When he glanced up and smiled Arthur just snorted, rolling his eyes and going back to his own papers. He let that one go because it was typical Eames, and nobody really ever expected anything different. Keith clamped a big, rough hand on Arthur's shoulder in sympathy.

"He won't stop 'til you're every bit as queer as him, mate," Keith shook Arthur once, and grinned wide. "Just give in and taste the rainbow, yeah?"

"Nah," Arthur had replied, toneless, but still playing along. "Something tells me he still wouldn't stop."

"Oh you'd never hear the last of me, darling," Eames' eyes briefly crossed Arthur's before he gave Keith a somewhat pointed look. "And I do not have a label I'm aware of, Mr. Keith. I just know who I am." _Arthur_. He had not said the others name, but to one privy to their situation it was the most unsubtle jab Eames could have taken. And yet, Arthur had allowed for that one too.

"Yeah, yeah—we have a day or two, let's blow some of this bloke's money on something to drink," Keith had an arm around both Eames and Cobb, who had so far said nothing and kept his narrowed eyes on his briefing through the entire conversation. Following quietly behind, Arthur finally allowed himself a very quick, very small smile.

That had been the first day.

The rest of the week had been easy enough. The plan was so simple it could almost have been pulled off by first or second year Extractors with little or no mistakes, but the client had made very clear that there was absolutely no room for mistakes. Although the simplicity of the job gave the team more downtime than usual, and Arthur could not find it in him to complain. He would often find himself a deck or two away from the others, and even though he never mentioned where he was headed after the evenings, Eames always managed to find him.

The extraction is to take place the next evening. Despite the more than ample time between their last night on the Nordic Empress and the job itself, Cobb has called an early meeting in the morning. Arthur, however, has not concerned himself with a good night's rest. He feels rested, rejuvenated, and there has been a calm that follows him around every time Eames appears at the railing beside him. He does not look at the other man, but he enjoys his martini in the comfortable silence. It has been months since their last spat, and the air has cleared, and he is content once again.

Eames stirs beside him.

"In Ontario," his gaze remains on the hanging lines of twinkling white lights overhead, and his expression is that of a man remembering a precise moment with the fondest of affection. "When you found me hiding out in that damn cabin, miles away from civilization and slowly dying of hypothermia, you kept asking me things to keep me awake while we waited for rescue. Do you remember?"

"I remember it was cold," Arthur shrugs, and sets his martini to the side, content to slide his hands into his pockets and let the sea breeze meet resistance against his back.

He braces himself for what is coming—Eames only really gets nostalgic about the early days of their friendship when he is about to start an argument. He does not mean to, and Arthur believes this. He knows Eames doesn't always have a finger hovering over Arthur's buttons, grinning devilishly and waiting for the inevitable shouting match. He knows Eames will push his buttons blindly sometimes, only really wanting to let the other man know that he has these memories of theirs preserved forever—and what that really means.

"You kept asking me things. Where I grew up, my parents, strangest place I'd ever woken up," Eames turns sideways. He looks so good tonight, and he knows Arthur secretly longs for these rare occasions where Eames dresses to impress. His hair slicked neatly to the side, suit black from collar to the toes of his shoes, sleek and sexual—down to the necktie. And yet, though neatly trimmed close to his chin, jaw line, and upper-lip, he retains a shadow of stubble. Brows raise over sharp grey eyes. "Best shag I'd ever had—and I asked you to specify—"

"Man or woman," Arthur nods, and realizes he is coming off somewhat impatient. "And yes, I remember. You like both. Very much. In fact, by the end of that incredibly detailed account of your experiences with _both_ genders, and what made them different but equally satisfying, and how you tried to get as much from either as often as possible I remember not only questioning some basic principles, and pre-conceived notions of your sexual deviance, but also wondering how long hypothermia _actually_ took to kill someone." His dark eyes flick over to the other mans, and he offers a smile that signifies something of a truce. "Going somewhere with this, Eames?"

Eames mirrors the smile, and just for a moment uncertainty flickers across it. He softens in that instant, and looks like he wants to say something—instead the uncertainty melts, and he moves forward, so that he is leaning far into Arthur's body heat, lips lingering against the other's cheek.

"No," he breathes. "No, not really."

The kiss is slow, not starving, or wanting—Arthur does something he has never done before in public. He kisses back, even so much as letting his fingertips touch the other's cheek. When he breaks the kiss, Eames does not remove himself from Arthur's personal space. Instead his eyes study every angle of the Point Man's face, and he is warm, and almost adoring. "Only that… I think I made an impression, long ago, that I am something of a cad. "

Arthur snorts, and turns to reclaim his drink. "You are a cad."

Eames does not break the stare, but the smile slowly fades like a dying ember. "A man can change," he says softly. "We do. Often without even realizing it."

Arthur frowns, irritated, but not at Eames' words. He is irritated at the sympathy that curls up out of him, and will not be pushed down. It is an old feeling—he has watched Eames struggle with himself for years, and has long since learned to see beyond the confidence, and the careless, reckless streak that colors him so beautifully. Arthur can only impulsively, against the nature of his will, offer words—words meant to be comforting, perhaps, although he knows they are nothing of the sort.

"You have changed," he murmurs, gentle. "And I'm glad for the change—in so many ways. I admire that. But I _can't_ be changed. This thing… this thing that we have, it _is_ what I want, but not a _life_ I can ever see myself living. I want children, Eames. I want a wife, and a home when I leave this business. You can't give me those things. Not in this life. Not in this reality. That's why I have never asked you to be mine, because it would be beyond wrong of me. It would be cruel, I think. Even crueler than when we're tearing each other apart."

Eames is silent a moment. Then, "So… you want to be Cobb, then."

Arthur feels his mouth open, slack-jawed, and closes it quickly. It drops open again. "Ah—what?"

"You want to be Cobb, find someone as lovely as Mal, who can give you beautiful children and help you define who you are," Eames' words are not bitter, they are stark—bold truth, as he translates Arthur's patronizing explanation. "Only, you want to be defined in the way Cobb is, God only bloody knows why, by the life he has chosen to lead, and the lives he has created. You're forgetting, Arthur, that you have almost thirty years behind you that already let you see exactly who you are. You refuse to think back, and look at them. For someone who 'refuses to be labeled', you certainly are a little desperate to be stamped by one."

And yet he still extends a hand—an invitation to walk with him, and remain in the safeness of their unspoken connection a little while longer.

Arthur's eyes have already swept the perimeter for on-lookers long before he takes the extended hand. To Eames, he can find no reply. Then again, he has always enjoyed their silences.

"And you are cruel, Arthur," Eames adds, as if the afterthought was certainly worth risking their current truce. "In all that you do."

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[ Now—4:33 AM]**

The hours fly by like lifetimes, and Cobb does not allow himself to believe that this is bordering on obsession.

Just over a week ago, Cobb was absolutely certain he had buried Jonathan Eames. The features—contorted, crushed, charred and destroyed—could have been Eames. The clothing that still clung to the bright red cracks in the blackened skin had been his, and the proportions of the body, or what was left of it, could have been Eames.

What had sold the Extractor was the totem they had found on Eames' body. Diehl's people understood the business of shared dreaming, but anyone who had even heard of Eames understood he was a gambler, and so anyone seeing the totem would have only taken it as a lucky charm of sorts. If Eames had to fake his own death to save his life, it would not have been necessary to leave that distinguishing mark on the body, and he would have known that.

Eames also understood the importance of keeping a totem sacred, and so he would not have left it behind.

Just over a week ago, Ariadne planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and it has only continued to grow. That is why he is still here, in the darkest hours of the morning, in a car outside Eames' flat. These stake-outs have become more frequent, and he only breaks to call his children.

No one in the underground has heard from Eames either, no contact has been made with him under any of his aliases. That news does not surprise him—in the best case scenario, he would not expect much movement on Eames' part, especially amongst the other dreamers, but Cobb has lit several beacons. To the untrained eye they are a simple series of numbers written on scraps of paper, nondescript, idle and ordinary, pinned under a magnet on a refrigerator in Eames' London flat or scribbled beneath the various messages he has left with Eames' other trusted associates. Only he and Arthur know what it is—it is a radio frequency. It is a coded channel they have only used on two occasions, a way of contacting one another when a job has gone so badly that any other sort of contact would lead the wolves right to them. It is old fashioned, and that is the beauty of it—radio is almost an obsolete technology at this point, and so they rest assured no one else is listening.

Cobb has sent this message up, hoping that Eames has simply forgotten the frequency and needs reminding.

Arthur and Eames. It does not seem so strange a notion, as Cobb lets the hours pass, and memories and moments he has witnessed and brushed off across almost ten years begin to make sense. He had simply been too distracted by his own life to pick up on them, to see deeper into the situation than what it seemed. Their line of work required a trust that broke down all barriers, and put their lives in one another's hands frequently. Eames and Arthur had always ended up in those kinds of situations together, one pulling the other out of the fire, one resuscitating the other even after hoping to survive seemed stupid.

Cobb often found them that way, at the rocky points in their shared career, and he had always assumed it was chance or circumstance that put one close enough to the other to always be the first on the scene of a rescue, or a good old-fashioned drive-by shooting. He never even considered that when it came to sink or swim, Eames and Arthur _refused _to let one another sink, and would go to the ends of the Earth, to Hell and back again, because one man did not want to live in a world without the other.

Cobb reaches for his coffee—cold now, but he can live with that. If he can find a way to spare Arthur what he went through after Mal's death, he will drink cold coffee for the next year; as long as it takes to know the absolute truth. There is a sound like displaced air, a pop, and a crackle, and Cobb almost spills cold coffee down the front of his shirt when his radio suddenly comes to life.

_Bentley. Impala. Jaguar. One-nine-one-nine. One-nine-five-six. One-nine-two-two. _ Cobb picks up his radio and is about to respond when he realizes the voice does not belong to Eames. It is Arthur, maybe still in Paris, maybe back in San Diego—alone, and broken. His voice is hoarse, and tired; diminished remains of what it was. Cobb hesitates, and decides to listen before speaking.

_You killed me again tonight. I let you kill me. It meant waking up, but… I wanted it. And you wanted it, and I wanted to give you that. That's all I have to give you now. It's all I can do to say that I'm sorry. I don't sleep much, these days, and when I do I hardly dream anymore…but. _A long sigh, a whine of exhaustion.

_But when I do, lately… it's been the same. I'm on the floor and I can't move. My eyes are open, but I can't see. I know you're there, though… because I can hear you. I can hear him pouring the fuel over you, I can smell it and I gag. I try turning my head and I can't. And I'm… glad that I can't, because you're calling out my name. Over, and over. And I can't help you. I smell the smoke, and I feel the heat from the fire, but I'm not afraid... because you aren't screaming, you're just calling out my name. I just lay there. I listen to you burn to death. _

There is a long pause, and some muffled sounds on the other end. It takes Cobb a moment to realize Arthur is crying, quietly. He imagines Arthur, sitting against the wall in the dark, alone, with his head in his hands and the radio pressed into his cheek. He wants to pick up, and respond, but he doesn't. Maybe Arthur needs this—needs to talk, not to a projection, not even to a friend, just needs to talk, when he thinks no one else is listening.

There is another rough intake of breath. _And there are things I want to tell you, but I can't speak. And there's no time. There are so many things I want to tell you—like how there were times I wasn't so afraid of what we were, and I wanted to tell everyone. I want to tell you that you fought for me, killed for me—and so I always tried to do the same for you, when it came down to it. I want to tell you that once, when I realized my selfishness was going to end with me losing you, I was going to tell you I loved you. Not because I thought you wanted to hear it. I didn't know. I just did. I just loved you. And when I saw you with her… I told myself it wasn't real. I told myself it was impossible, and so I never let the thought cross my mind again. I let you believe you were as nothing to me. And I paid dearly for it. _

Cobb settles back in his seat, and distantly decides he is going to need another cup of coffee. He is going to listen to Arthur until Arthur is done, so that all of these things are not lost to a great void of silence. _Forgive me, Eames. Please, please, please.. please, please just forgive me. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Authors note: **Sorry for the ambiguity! I may only be the diet coke of evil (just one calorie, not evil enough) but I still get sparks here and there. I'm going to try to update within the next two days so you guys aren't left hanging for too long. That being said, thank you all for your patience, time, and your lovely feedback. Thanks and take care!

**PART VII**

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[ Now—7:03 PM]**

"Bentley. Impala. Jaguar. One-nine-one-nine. One-nine-five-six. One-nine-two-two," Cobb holds the radio to his lips, and waits in silence for a reply that in three weeks has yet to come. He clears his throat, and speaks once again, automatic and toneless by now, "Bentley. Impala. Jaguar. One-nine-one-nine. One-nine-five—six…" he trails off, leaning forward in his seat and straining to see the faint movement in the distance.

In the failing light he can just barely make out a shadow in the outdoor hallway. The mail hall. The other few tenants generally tend to check their mail earlier in the day, and have not seemed so concerned as this one to keep their heads down. It does not take much to convince himself to set the radio down and step out of the car, moving slowly and unthreateningly toward the dark orange glow of the hall.

When he finally comes in sight of the other man he idles in front of a random post-box, pretending to fumble with a key that he doesn't own. A sidelong glance is not enough to reveal the face of the other man—but he can see that the man is hovering just over Eames' box, and when the figure bends to open it he begins to pull out letter after letter, junk mag after junk mag.

He clears his throat, and when the stranger turns his head his chest tightens—and immediately relaxes when Cobb realizes he is not looking at Eames, back from the dead. There is still a faint hope, one he dares not go beyond "faint", because Eames' mail has not stopped. Even without a body, at this point someone should have at least noticed him missing.

Cobb smiles, and any alarm that was on the other's face evaporates before it even began to betray any real panic.

"Lotta mail," he says, nonchalantly. "Pain in the ass, huh?"

"Yeah, well—" the stranger just shrugs, and some of the envelopes spill from his arms, and when he bends to collect them the rest follow. He laughs, nervously, and Cobb quickly moves over to help him. It is still possible that this man is a new tenant, who was simply assigned Eames' old box. "—been out, so… oh, thank you…"

Cobb fingers one of the envelopes and sees Eames' name on it. He drops all cover when he glances up at the stranger, and rises steadily to his feet. The stranger has also dropped his cover, and the alarm begins to spread like virus across his boyish features when Cobb moves toward him.

"Pay me the compliment of being very, very frank," he says. "And give me _a damn_ good reason for you to be collecting the mail of a dead man."

**THE NORDIC EMPRESS**

**June [ 2 Years, 6 Months ago ]**

"Tipped off?" Arthur leans forward, notepad neglected on his thigh. "What do you mean, tipped off?"

"He knows we're coming, just not _who_ we are, or what we intend to extract," Cobb enunciates each word slowly, so that it may sink into the team members that the job has only gotten a little more difficult, but is still absolutely possible. Arthur is enticed by the new challenge, but still cautious, as ever. From the corner of his eye he is vaguely aware of Eames in a chair some feet behind him, ankle crossed over his knee and his posture a little lazy. He stirs.

"Is it possible this is a set up," there is no panic in the smooth, accented voice. "A very organized hit or something—are we sure Price came up clean in the research?"

"Beyond a doubt, Eames," Arthur responds, deep, stiffly, and turns back to Cobb with a hard jaw, nodding. "Besides—he was the one who let you know, right?"

"Right, like I said," Cobb does not miss a beat. "Not enough details to stop us, but it is likely to hinder our getaway. The room will be guarded, but Price has paid off a few of his men—enough to possibly sway the others to follow our distraction long enough for us to get in and get out."

"That's cutting it a little close, don't you think," Eames puts in, and his posture has not changed. Arthur does not turn to look at him; instead his eyes fall back to his notepad, but he hates to hear the smarm in the Forger's words. It seems to have appeared a few years ago, where before there had been no sense of animosity towards the Extractor. Arthur hopes he is the only one to have picked up on it thus far, and fights the heat that creeps into his face. "If I forge the missus on the second level—"

"It won't be a forge, Eames. This distraction is going to need to be outside the dream, to lead the men we _haven't_ bought away from the cabin. Arthur—" Cobb is suddenly making direct eye contact, and there is a significant look there generally only intended for his Point Man, his right hand. "You think you can give these guys the slip long enough for us to finish the extraction?"

A curt nod, then, "Does this change the length of the dream? How much time are you going to need?"

"An extra thirty."

"Right," Arthur _feels_ the tension behind him, and from the corner of his eye can see Eames shift in his chair—the posture has changed, rigid now, and pensive. He is grateful when Eames says nothing after Cobb begins speaking again.

"Now the distraction—"

"You mean the bait," Eames snaps, finally, although his tone is cool, not icy—nothing to suggest anything beyond the fact that Eames' lack of faith in Cobb's plan is over doubting promises of payment. It could still be argued he was not being protective. "There are at least seven of them—that we're _aware_ of. This was not part of the plan, he could miss the ride." Cobb levels Eames with a stare that lasts too long.

"He misses the ride, we're doubling back for him. Arthur," Cobb leaves Eames forgotten in the chair, to stew, and silently let his building frustration fume off of him. The Point Man and Extractor regard one another. "I'm asking a lot of you, I know that, but you are my best shot at keeping them away from us long enough. Do you understand?"

Arthur coughs—he prefers that, to clearing his throat.

"Nothing I can't handle," he says, and it sparks an immediate reaction out of Eames. Arthur does not look at him, however badly he wants to, and keeps his hard eyes glued to his notes.

"In _dreams_, it's nothing he can't handle in _dreams_. In the waking world Arthur's taken on the occasional assassin or two, but not seven, and _not_ in the middle of the _bloody_ Pacific Ocean for Christ's sake," the Forger leans forward, rebelliously. "His only out is going to be the water. What you are asking of him, _Cobb_, is potential suicide—"

"Eames," is all Arthur says, quiet, but still low in his throat—any lower and it may have been a growl. To his credit Eames does recognize the warning, and so he cuts himself off when Cobb rises to defend his actions.

"It is dangerous, yes, but we have dealt with worse before, and I have thought every new angle of this plan through. You act like I'm sending Arthur to his death," Cobb pauses after a moment, as if the thought has only just struck him. "You used to trust me, Mr. Eames."

Eames does trust Cobb. He has trusted him since before Arthur was ever part of the picture, and had Cobb requested _he_ stay behind and risk himself he would have not only obliged, but trusted Cobb to not _let_ it be the suicide mission he feared for Arthur. Even as he stews, and locks eyes with the Extractor, even though he knows he is about to cross a line,

"An extra thirty, that is a half hour, he'll be _dead_ by the time you double back to get him—" he cannot fight the words that rise up out of him, like vomit, and all control leaves him as he shoots forward and his fist seizes Arthur's shoulder. "Do you REALIZE what he is asking of you, Arthur?"

Arthur reels from the touch like he has been burned, and does not even turn his head to look at the Forger when he repeats, firmly, _darkly_, "_**Eames**_."

Like a dog kicked for his loyalty, Eames slowly settles back into his chair.

He is quiet, because he has to be. Because he crossed a line Arthur has begged him not to cross, and he hates it, and yet he brought it upon himself. The meeting continues, the board is set, and the pieces are positioned. Eames remains silent, and all Arthur can think of is what the other members of their team have taken from this little spat. Cobb only continues on distractedly, but Keith shoots him the occasional sidelong glance—it is a puzzled look, pondering perhaps, as if trying to decide what to make of the Point Man. For just a moment, there is a fleeting, solemn pity for the Forger in his eyes.

**[ 12:42 AM ]**

Arthur knocks, instead of using Eames' room key. It is a white flag of sorts—an olive branch, the same one he has extended countless times over the years. Every time he offers it, he fears it will not be accepted. Arthur pulls in a deep breath, and leans against the door, closing his eyes and moving his lips wordlessly, counting the seconds until the knob turns, and it opens.

"Darling," Eames is seldom what Arthur can only describe as _nasty_—but the passive-aggressive, unfeeling smile on his face, and the glaze over his deadened eyes is just that. The Forger opens the door, and turns his back on the Point man, heading back over to the edge of the bed and tips his beer back, draining it. "If it's light conversation you're looking for, I'm only going to disappoint," Eames flicks a deadly glance his way. "And if you ask me to grant a condemned man's last request, I am going to get very, very angry."

Arthur stands there and watches Eames push everything down, the insult, the anger, the distant longing he has kept at bay for years. He has been doing this for so long—doing this _to_ him for years, and Eames has always given him what he wants. Despite the retaliation, the ripping, and the roaring, and the knock-down-drag-out desperate fighting they often find themselves caught up in, Eames has always given Arthur what he wanted and never betrayed their relationship.

As impatient as he gets, Eames still waits for Arthur to come out into the light with him. Arthur is sorry. He has been, many times, but even now will not utter an apology. All Eames ever gets from him is an explanation. Half the time, it isn't even a good one, and yet Eames accepts it, in the end.

"I didn't come here for that," Arthur begins, slowly. There is the tiniest inclination of Eames' head—the only sign the Forger is even listening. "This job is dangerous. It has its risks, and its payoffs… and we have always done it, to the best of our abilities, side by side. When did you start feeling the need to… _protect me_, Eames?" He mouths the words as if they leave a disgusting taste in his mouth—because really, they do. "I've never needed your protection. Not like that. I don't need it now, so please don't try to protect me."

Eames' eyes are back on the silent television, and he snorts, once. "Not even from yourself?" Arthur shakes his head, and bends slightly to run his palm down his cheek, weary. He knows he is now going to pay for the fight they managed to avoid last night. "You forget sometimes, what I am capable of. You forget sometimes that I am every bit as dangerous as you, if not more. You forget that I am the best in _my_ line of work. You forget that I am not a pining young woman, left scorned, passed-over, no matter how much you would love me to be," his eyes begin to darken, storms brewing dark grey.

"I do not care how you treat me in front of Cobb. I do not care that, when you're around him, you can't stand the bloody sight of me. Arthur, what gets me so positively, _frighteningly_ angry is how blindly you follow him. How eager you are to please him, and how that desire completely blots out your usual, impeccable logic. And so that logic is nowhere to be found when it needs to let you know that you _will_ follow him anywhere," Eames jerks to his feet again, and stabs his hand into his pocket for a cigarette. "Even to your own death."

"I follow him because I trust him," Arthur says quietly, after a moment of heavy silence. The air is thick, and Arthur feels his voice tremor, and a bizarre sort of rapture stirs within him, mingling with the ugliness of his anger, and slowly threatening to rise and overtake him. "I have always trusted him with my life, and it is not your place to question that. It was never your place—"

"I've fought for you," Eames snaps through smoke, curling from either side of his mouth with every word. "I have _killed_ for you, just as many times, and if that hasn't earned me the same trust, the trust to _lead_ you then trust me to know when you are in over your head. Trust me—"

"No," Arthur all but bellows, and in an instant he has closed the distance between them and his forefinger is rigid at Eames' face. "_NO_, Eames. I trust you to be our Forger, and to deceive the Mark. I trust you to keep control when it's your dream we're working in, and I trust you to watch my back when it's mine. Beyond that you have no more say in what Cobb asks of me than the man who cuts my hair in back in fucking San Diego! We fuck. We _fuck_ Eames, _you_ are the—Don't walk away from me, _look at _me!—" Arthur seizes the other by the sleeve of his black cotton t-shirt, and violently yanks him back before Eames can fully turn away. "—the person I _fuck_ in the world outside of the dream! You are _not_ in my dreams, not my real dreams, because what we are is _nothing_ beyond that! You are the _person_ that I _fuck_."

The words leave him and on the inside he is sinking with regret, because he only lies to cover a deep fear; one that lost its meaning a long time ago. Eames does not try to break away from the hold, and instead he moves closer into it. His hard eyes have lost their hostility, and his fingers close around Arthur's forearm, unthreatening. Arthur feels helpless, caged in by his own anger, and humiliation, and he searches Eames' unchanging expression, desperately. He wonders if the Forger can see the wordless apology set deep in his own eyes, hidden somewhere in their dark cover.

"I am the man you _fuck_," Eames says, evenly, quietly. "In San Diego. In London. In Paris. In St. Petersburg. Wherever you may find me." Arthur says nothing in return, and the nasty sneer ghosts across the full lips. "Right. I was worried, after all of this… after everything… that it _might_ actually change you. Make you clingy, and a little weak for me. I'm relieved I was wrong," The sneer shows itself in the form of a smile, and Eames releases his lover.

"No, no—the fire is still there, pet," He walks to the window of his cabin, slow, decisive, and not even angry anymore. He leaves Arthur behind to stand there, and take breaths so shallow they cannot be heard even in the silence, but Eames does not turn to look at him again. Finally, "Are we finished, then?"

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**[ Now—7:38 PM]**

Cobb is getting very impatient. He hopes that his hostage is sensing that, and will be willing to talk soon, because at some point one of the night watchmen are going to need to use the restroom between the laundry and the post boxes. So far he has managed to half-way convince the younger man that he is not afraid to blow a kneecap off in order to get information, and has gathered that the man—Harold—probably never knew Eames personally. Really, though, that is all he has managed to learn in the last half-hour, as the young man cannot stop alternating begging for his life and threatening to scream loud enough to get the night watch's attention.

"You're fucking with me, Harold," Cobb warns quietly, leaning all of his weight into the forearm he has pressed into Harold's collarbone. "I don't like to be fucked with. Don't fuck with me."

"I'm not, I'm not! I swear, please—I don't even know who this Jonathan guy is, it's my friend—my friend Dave. Davey Peterson, he gave me this gig! He can tell you everything you want to know!" Harold's already pinched features are scrunching up in undignified fear, and Cobb makes sure to give the mouth of the gun, now wedged hard into the man's ribs, a very convincing shove. "He's here! He's on watch tonight, just let me get him—"

"Oh, so "Davey Peterson, the Night Guard" is gonna solve all my problems?" Harold nods, and Cobb jerks his arm into the soft throat, choking. "You sure this isn't some ploy to get me to turn myself into security?" Harold can't speak, but he shakes his head desperately, mouth moving, but he can only wheeze his protests.

"Listen, Harold—I'm not a hit man, I'm not an assassin. _Someone_ has been in my dead friend's place, drinking his coffee, moving shit around, and now _you_ are collecting his mail. What I need to know is why, because if he _isn't_ dead, or if someone _has_ him, and he _ends_ _up_ dead because you won't open your _goddamned mouth!—" _Cobb releases the choke hold, and Harold struggles to talk and breathe heavily at the same time. "WHAT, Harold, what?"

"D-Dave, he ah, he's being paid by s-some bird to keep this place up. I don't know why, he didn't tell me—only told me she's paying him good, real good to take care of this place. To take care of it, but to make it look like this Eames guy isn't coming back, all right? That's all I know, I swear!"

"What, a woman?" Cobb tries to sound more interrogative and less surprised. A woman? "What's her name?" Harold shakes his head and attempts a shrug, which gets him a gun beneath his chin. "Where are the checks coming from?"

"Jesus, I don't—" A soft click, and Harold's eyes fly open even wider. "—Mexico, I think!"

Days later, Cobb finally goes home. He quietly closes the front door behind him, and his steps in the foyer are slow, and uncertain. The house is dark and silent, save for the glow of the television from the family room. Cobb leans against the wall, and takes in the scene; there is an episode of Mash playing, muted, and it lights up Miles' sleeping face. His father-in-law had tried his damndest to be awake when Cobb finally arrived, probably having promised the children as much.

He had already broken down and let Miles know why he has been away so long, and the disapproval he had very much not been looking forward to has come and gone from the older man.

Cobb runs both hands through his dark sandy hair, and for the hundredth time in two days his mind touches on the question that has stolen any hope for sleep. He does his best to ignore it, to tell himself that a decent night's rest will make the decision easier, and he moves forward, gently touching Miles' shoulder with the tips of his fingers. The old man stirs, and squints, before he sits up on the couch. Cobb wearily comes to sit beside him, and leans over, elbows on his knees and chin on both hands.

"Dom," comes Miles' voice from his right. It always reminds him of being home. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Cobb does not let his mind whirl this time. Cobb does not allow for another debate, between truth and morality, and the steep price of another's peace. He does not think of Ariadne, barely able to put her phone down for two seconds in hopes he will call her with news. He does not think of Arthur, and how what little progress the Point Man has made in dealing with his grief in the last few weeks would all fall apart if he were to know the truth. He begins to wonder the value of truth, and if truth is worth a purgatory of grief for his team members.

To Miles, his answer is no.


	8. Chapter 8

**PART VIII**

**THE NORDIC EMPRESS**

**June [ 2 Years, 6 Months ago ]**

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—_Arthur rounds a corner, and another, and wonders how many corners he has left until he is forced to turn and fight. _Fuck, fuck—FUCK. _Instead of another hallway there is just the back of a wall—a smoky lounge, recently abandoned by those who preferred to begin drinking before noon. His eyes shoot from the tables, to the bar, and his heart pounds against his chest, inside his ears, down to his finger tips. _Plan. Stick to the plan—_he glances at the clock. Fuck. Another ten minutes before Keith, Eames and Cobb will even be awake. He has already been running for twenty, and until he hears the ruckus of the helicopter above deck he cannot end this chase.

He takes a deep breath, and reaches for his sidearm, hoping it will not come to gunfire, but he would prefer to find himself in the hands of lawmakers than in the hands of a recently violated Mark. His hand comes back empty, and masking panic, he quickly scrabbles to his other side for the back-up. Still nothing. Arthur feels his heart begin to slow, and his breathing with it.

A calm comes over him, a familiar feeling of one who has been played the fool in his own game—so it has come to this. He had been set up from the beginning, and his weapons had been stolen while he slept. He has been made a rat in a maze, and one that he cannot wake from. Arthur does not bat an eyelash as the bartender silently filters out of the room, guiltily, and wanting no part of the oncoming violence. Arthur does not know how deep the treachery goes, or if his team mates have been left alone and vulnerable, and he has been the one lead on the chase.

_Find out what they know_, his instincts—a grounding voice, firm and comforting in the certainty of what must be done. _Find out what they know before you let them take you. _

The Point man turns, slowly, and raises his hands to either side of his head when he sees the seven men come through the archway.

"Gentlemen," he says, and is able to pull off a rather convincing, rather smug little smile. "Which one of you do I talk to about a truce?" Six bodies move around him in a sort of organized formation reminiscent of the Third Reich, and each of the six men fall into the occupations they were assigned. Five of them surround him with weapons aimed for a headshot, and the Sixth kneels before a brief-case covered in a dark blue fabric, opening it and quietly taking out its contents. The Seventh approaches him, slow and deliberate.

"A truce," the man does not smile back, not even to mock. He nods to the man with the blue case. "We're willing to let you walk out of here with your life, if you're willing to answer our questions. How's that for a truce?"

Torture. Well—it has been seven something years since Arthur has been tortured for information, and even then it had been Eames who had taken the brunt of it. For him. _Eames_, the sound echoes inside his skull. He thinks it so deep in his consciousness that the letters do not even form a name, just a feeling. Arthur steels himself. He knows his mind will probably not be his own in another moment or two, and he braces his will against the coming of the flood. He shrugs, and lowers his hands to his sides, keeping his posture straight as he unhooks his cufflinks, and rolls up his sleeves.

"Is that all, then? No other offers?" he does not lose the smile—he is betting a lot on the idea that the men will hesitate to shoot, in fear of causing an incident in international waters that will earn the Mark a slot on the six o'clock news, across the civilized world. The man across from him is silent, and the moment of hesitation that lingers between them gives Arthur a window that allows him to see through the others poorly conceived poker face. _Eames_, the feeling is not without regret this time, but it is also accompanied by a warmth that spreads to every inch of his rigid body. "Then I respectfully decline, sir."

The Seventh man watches him a moment, studying him almost curiously, and turns his head to the side. "The man you plan on stealing from is paying us a lot of money to find out where and who your extractor is," he says after the pause. _He doesn't know. He doesn't even know it's going on he doesn't know anything thank God. Eames. _Arthur takes note of the clock in his peripheral vision—three more minutes. Three more minutes, and he merely waits to hear the blades of the chopper. The man does not take his eyes off Arthur, and offers frankly, almost sympathetically, "If you can't cooperate you're going to die, painfully."

"I know," is Arthur's quiet response.

"And you will _still_ betray your team. You may be good at what you do, but numbers don't lie in reality. The odds, I'm afraid, are unfairly stacked."

"Yeah, well," Arthur feels his body, his emotions and his fear harden, just as he trained them to, in dreams, and in reality. His smile becomes a hard-edged grin, and he holds both arms out. "I may be a hell of a point man," he says. "but I'm still a shitty gambler. This should be a breeze for you."

It does not last long. The seventh man was right, and Arthur had known all along that he would be. Arthur has known all along that Cobb chose him to do this for a reason—because things do change, plans change, one circumstance my vary and lead to ten other outcomes, and Cobb knows Arthur can adapt. Cobb knows Arthur can take it, and he does.

He holds his own, light on his feet, landing punches and blows someone of his weight and build should not be able to throw so ferociously. Considering it is one on seven, Arthur does beautifully, brilliantly, and may have even found his way to the chopper on time had it not been for the Sixth man, the one with the needle.

The pain is sharp and blinding, but it only stops him for a half-second before he yanks it out, and tosses it to the ground. The Sixth man is thrown effortlessly aside, and Arthur manages to break the nose of the Third before a wave of dizziness comes over him, and he stumbles, but manages to stay on his feet.

The others have stopped fighting, and Arthur's eyes are wild as they fly to each of them, confused, and disoriented, before he completely loses his balance and topples over onto his side. They do not close in on him, as he expects them to—they stand around him, looking down, watching as he writhes and claws to regain control of his body, and mind. He is regarded in pity, as his movements become more sluggish, and he hardly feels the first blow as the knuckles drag in a slow, hard motion across his temple and into his left eye. Arthur's head only snaps to the side, and he cannot move his body away from the impact of a booted foot into his ribs.

_Eames_. No strength, no warmth. There is only regret now. Eames had been right.

"What—" Arthur gasps, raggedly, and his voice is deep and hollow in his own ears. Briefly he wonders if he is even the one speaking. "What—did you—do to me…"

The Seventh kneels before him, and fists his still-slicked back hair, twisting Arthur's head so that he can look into his face. "Loaded the die," is the deep, hollowed reply, more of a vibration than a voice, and it screams against his skin and echoes of the inside of his skull. "Told you this fight was fixed."

The Sixth man approaches him again, almost nervously, and Arthur can do nothing to resist a second needle as it slides into the plump, eager vein of his arm. His conscious mind is about to slip into darkness, and while he knows the truth serum is going to ultimately keep him awake, he only takes comfort in the fact that he has, in some way, been here before. He has resisted this primitive form of extraction before, and will do so again—the Seven men will resort to pain, in the end, when he will not give them the responses they are looking for. He knows where to follow his mind, where to bring it so that he will feel no pain, and think no thoughts that will feed his paranoia, and make him betray the team.

He detaches from the scene. He is distantly aware of another fist crashing into his already cracked ribs, and a hand coming around his throat, but these are nothing to him now—somewhere above, through wooden floorboards and the soles of dress shoes that bury him in the belly of this beast he hears the pulse of chopper blades. His part is done, for now—and he lets himself slip away.

_Eames is being an idiot. Eames is being an idiot to make Arthur smile—the most challenging of all his vices and all his thrills when Arthur is in this sort of mood. Eames is serenading him, and has cornered him against the refrigerator and the kitchen sink, arms braced on either side of his lithe, recently battered body and his face an inch from the Point man's; a rather gleeful, pathetic expression there._

"_I can dim the lights and sing you songs, full of sad things we can do the tango, just for two," Eames, even as a forger, pulls off a rather lousy tenor outside of the dreamscape. "I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings, be your—_It's alright Arthur, I double checked, even straight people like this song—" _Eames has to pause and laugh when Arthur rolls his eyes, and a smile threatens the corners of his mouth. "—be your Valentino just for you-!" _

"_You can stop," Arthur's tone is still flat, even if the line of his mouth is not. Eames continues to sing, and while he is moving his head to an invisible beat he never stoops to try and kiss Arthur. "You can stop and pull this train wreck over, whenever you want, feel free to stop at any time."_

"_Oh, let me feel your heartbeat grow faster, faster—Oo, let me feel your love heat," Eames moves in closer, so that the material of his plain white tee is grazing the line of Arthur's buttons, and the other man can only turn his head to escape him. "_Honestly? I'm going to sing until you let it go. I had to do it, you know that_." Arthur does not look at him, although his eyes narrow, and harden, and he opens his mouth to retaliate, but is drowned out by the awful attempt at notes Eames' voice is not meant to even attempt to hit. "Come and sit on my hot-seat of love, and tell me how do you feel right after all, I'd like for you and I to go romancing—"_

"_I was in control. I needed two more minutes, you did _not_ have to blow my brains out and finish it yourself—"_

"Two more minutes and they would have thrashed your sleeping body beyond repair—_say the word your wish is my command," _

"_And what if you weren't fast enough? What then? I die and my dream starts to go with me, what if you hadn't—" It is beginning to get very difficult talking over Eames' spontaneous musical number, and finally he lets his body slack against the counter, and puts his hands up in surrender. "All right, Eames—All right! It's gone, I let it go, please, please shut the fuck up!"_

_Eames stops singing long enough to study Arthur's face, suspiciously, making sure the Point man keeps his end of the bargain—the expression on Eames' face (and, yes, the fucking song) is enough to crumble his resolve, and he cannot help but smile and avert his eyes to the ceiling. Eames smacks him hard on the cheek with a quick kiss, and breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief. _

"_God in Heaven, there it is—Arthur's smile, Haley's bloody comment comes along more oft—"_

There is a rank, sour smell filling his nostrils, his mouth, and he is choked by it. Awareness is slowly tilting the world around him, tossing him back and forth, and he wretches forward again, splattering blood and vomit onto the floor and onto the hands that cannot steady him—his own hands. He sick, from the serum, and from the pain that radiates and penetrates in and out of him, and he is grateful for the darkness. There is another pair of hands on him, and they create warmth that he can recognize as real, and so he does not fumble for his totem.

_Eames._

"Easy—easy, love, there you are," Eames' palm is warm against his freezing forehead, and Arthur lets his body lax into the hold, breathing shallow. His thoughts race, but he does not allow them out of his mouth. He wants to, but he has forced his thoughts, and his feelings, to be locked away in his mind for a space of time he cannot even fathom right now, and so the words remain inside him. _I'm sorry I was wrong I should've listened, should've heard you I'm sorry forgive me forgive me don't leave me behind I—_

"Did we do it?" he manages to say, hoarse and clipped as the pain begins to return to his reality.

"We did, we got it—Keith ratted us out, sometime in the night. Feared for his own skin, I suppose. Good thing Cobb changed the location last minute, or we would all be trading our cabins for wooden boxes."

"But we—we did it? It worked?"

"Yes, we did. The job is done. It was a success, despite you telling the Mark's people everything down to how Cobb and I take our coffee in the morning."

Arthur jerks, and flails even when his body screams in protest. "I what?"

"Only joking. But they did manage to nail you with quite a nasty concoction, I'm surprised you didn't sing like Tweety bird."

"Fuck you," Arthur breathes, ragged and exhausted, joyful and relieved. "Fuck you, Eames. Ride waiting?"

"Not yet," Eames is absently wiping vomit and blood off Arthur's chin, and even in the dim light he can see the disgusted expression when Eames sees the extent of his injuries. This is exactly what he had warned of, exactly what he had been so desperate to avoid. "Cobb was the one they were looking for, I let him go. He'll be back soon."

"You stayed behind," Arthur murmurs, brokenly. "You came back… for _me_?"

"Actually there was a rumor going round that Cher was on this cruise, I wanted one more shot at an autograph," Eames' sarcasm is not accompanied by a smile. "You're an _idiot_, Arthur."

"I know," Arthur is grateful. He doesn't care if Eames is angry. "I know it," he knows Eames has an arm around him, but he begins to realize it is more to support his weight than to comfort him. He grips the Forger's bicep weakly, as strong as he can right now, and squeezes. The arm around him tightens a fraction, but it is all he gets. It is only a flicker of a thought, but even as he falls back out of consciousness it ignites into a flame of realization: Arthur crossed a line, and now Eames has moved on. He came back for him, this one last time, and Arthur cannot think of a reason why. He has not earned this. He has treated Eames appallingly for as long as Eames could take it, and now, as it should be, Eames is gone.

**ENSENADA, MEXICO**

**[ Now ]**

All the leads have turned cold.

That is what he has told Ariadne, to keep her at bay while he decides what he should do. There are those who would criticize his hesitation, and condemn him for depriving those he loves of the truth, but Cobb deals in untruths. He has crossed the lines that separate truth from untruth, reality from unreality, and he has been in the minds of his team members enough times to understand how they cope. It is perhaps wrong—it is unethical, and unfair, to withhold this truth from them, but when he looks in Arthur's eyes these days he still sees suffering. However, it is not the naked grief, wild and primal, that it was in the beginning. If Arthur should cross that line again, not even Cobb knows for certain he can be brought back.

The mystery woman is one of Eames' old contacts, Maria Berrios, a retired Architect. He had initially come to Tijuana to try and get her back for a job that never took place—as soon as he came into town he realized he was being followed, and tried to lead the goons away from her. After the ordeal he had returned to her, and she had cared for him as long as she could before he began to die. Eames had made it out of the hotel room alive—he had somehow managed to kill the other man, and switched their clothing before setting the place ablaze. But he had not left the scene unscathed.

It was not the first time, but Eames had taken a bullet in the side, and one in the thigh before finally managing to kill his attacker. These are things he did not take into consideration, in the midst of the blinding pain and violence, and so when he set the body and the room ablaze he simply did not move fast enough to avoid the flames.

This is all that Maria has been able to tell Cobb. By the looks of the Forger, Cobb can believe that it is all true.

Eames is covered in bandages—there are burns, bad burns, that cover more than half of his body and the doctors do not expect him to make it more than a few more days. His left leg is bandaged up to the thigh, where the flames did not reach, but the gunshot had gotten there first. There are burns that go from just above his navel to his collarbone, halfway up in neck, and crossing over to his shoulder, and his entire left arm. There are lesser burns, only covered with thin gauze, that managed to travel as high as the underside of his jaw, and yet aside from the lack of color, and the closed expression on his face, Eames _still_ does not seem as close to death as they say he is.

His eyes are closed, and his breathing is shallow, but the full lips—colorless and pale now—are set in the ghost of his best sneer.

"You're making him pay for it all now, aren't you?" Cobb murmurs into his folded hands, distantly, before dropping his head between his shoulders. "You're making him pay for everything."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note**: Sorry all… I'm battling a string of bad luck I suppose you could say, and the latest is a nasty case of tonsillitis. Needless to say, the fact that I've lost momentum does not mean I've lost interest. I hope that goes for you all, your support is absolutely wonderful and greatly appreciated! Thanks for giving this a read! =) More to come much sooner, I promise! Almost done!

**PART IX**

**SAN DIEGO, USA **

**[ Now—4:54 PM ]**

Ariadne is young, but she is not foolish.

Upon informing Cobb she was taking a trip to San Diego with the intention of visiting Arthur, and to perhaps do a little dreamscape training, she was lectured sternly for the better part of twenty minutes on what could be lying in Arthur's subconscious. Cobb has been there several times since Eames' death, and though he has not given her much detail in what Arthur tends to project in the Forger, he did let on that the end result was almost always a violent one. Ariadne did not say it, but she remembered Mal. She remembered—and understood—the violence that folds itself within a deep, buried grief.

Arthur seems all right, however. He greets her at the door with a smile, even if it is still an 'Arthur' smile and therefore only halfway enthused, and a quick hug. When she asks how he is, as far as Eames' death, now a month old news, he just shrugs and offers a softer smile, dark eyes falling to his hands. He tells her that he is all right, and that he is glad that she is, and Cobb, and Yusuf. He is happy in that he and his friends are able to move on, and not linger in the pain of memory. They talk a little longer, and agree on this. When uncomfortable silence settles upon them both, Arthur suggests they get to work, and so they do.

"An airport?" Arthur's brows are high enough that they are wrinkling his forehead, and he regards the layout of the first and only layer of the dream with his hands in his pockets, posture straight-backed.

"None of the planes will ever be able to take off," Ariadne explains, and tries not to feel so detached from the elementary plan. She is somewhat on edge, now, so exposed and vulnerable in Arthur's mind. This next job is perhaps a little too easy, but Cobb wanted to see if or how Arthur's projections would hinder them. It is a test run, and Arthur is not stupid—he just knows as well as the others that he needs to prove himself.

"There are also seventeen buses outside that will have maintenance problems throughout the day. The subject won't be able to leave, no matter how hard he tries. Helpless frustration will take over, he'll be more open to… suggestion, I suppose, was the idea."

"Very nice," Arthur murmurs. "Well thought-out, I like it."

"Thanks," Ariadne gives the place a quick glance-around, then nods. "Since we're here, wanna grab an airport drink? Sure they're incredibly expensive, but the fun part is always skipping out on the tab. Rattle the projections, you know." She smiles, and he returns it, half-heartedly. She takes his elbow and starts to steer him towards one of the bar tables. "Tell you what—I'll buy."

"I'll let you—but only because it won't affect the mountain of debt you're probably in from student loans."

"Please, I paid those off after the Fischer job," she winks. "I could shit money, if I wanted to."

"I'm sure you would find that more uncomfortable than awesome," Arthur laughs, and they sit down together. He is about to say something else, but he must see the tight expression appear on her face, because he turns half-way in his chair without a word. Eames' projection is right behind him, and he greets the shade with tone that is a little too casual. "Eames. What are you doing here?"

"Saying hello," The Forger's voice has a musical, jovial ring to it, and he holds out a hand to Ariadne. "I've missed you, come here," he says, and she tries her best not to betray any tension, or fear.

Eames pulls her into a big bear hug, and she returns it—for just an instant she is helpless. Ariadne has been so concerned with Arthur's pain she had honestly forgotten her own. She'd forgotten how many times she lay in bed, staring up at a dark ceiling and bargaining with time, space, death and reality for just one more chance to put her arms around him, and remember her friend with every one of her senses. She takes in his smile, his smell, the sound of his voice, the feel of his solid torso between her thin arms, and the taste of salt on his skin when she kisses his cheek.

He draws back, and smiles down at her, wiggling eyebrows suggestively. "Oh—and just how _much_ have you missed me?"

"Idiot," Ariadne smacks his arm, and laughs, hoping the sound will draw attention away from the glitter in her eyes. "Of course I've missed you. Arthur and I were just going over the plans for our latest job." Eames glances over his shoulder at Arthur, and gives a warm smile—it is sincere, and even a little professional. Arthur clears his throat, and straightens in his chair.

"Eames, we're working," is all he says.

"You just graduated, didn't you?" Eames ignores Arthur, and turns back to Ariadne. "Congratulations, so, so sorry I missed it. You know—dead and all."

"I'm sorry you missed it, too," Ariadne's eyes flick from the projection's face and back to Arthur's. "Listen—we really need to work right now, is there… anyway we could talk after? Arthur is on a pretty tight schedule." She searches Eames' expression—for any sign of disappointment, of malice, of hate, or of guilt, or anger.

There is a slight shadow there, lingering in Eames' eyes, but nothing violent, or hateful—the fight is gone from the projection, and there is nothing here like Cobb described. Ariadne can only imagine what Arthur has done to push those things down, so that the projection may still linger on, a shell of what it was.

Eames' projection shakes his head, once, and stoops to kiss her forehead. "Later, maybe. Take care, Ariadne. I'll leave you to it."

"Later, Eames," Ariadne resists the urge to hug him again, and watches him wander away, and disappear into the crowd. She takes her seat again, and says in a low voice, "Will he be a problem?"

"No," Arthur says, curtly. "He won't be a problem. Now—I was going through Robert Wing's file…"

"Arthur." The Point Man stops talking, and regards her with a quiet respect—he probably knows exactly what she is going to say next, and instead of being defensive and irritable, he concedes to listen. Ariadne sums up whatever courage may be lurking within her depths, and levels his gaze. "I'm only going to do this to you once, because I know you hate it, but… I believe it is necessary, and serves a purpose. A good one. Is there… anything you want to talk about? Anything at all."

Arthur settles back in his chair, and lets his dark eyes wander—if Ariadne could see where he was looking, she would see that his gaze has fallen onto Eames, and the cute red-head he is chatting up at the bar. Arthur's body is relaxed, however, and there is no hidden grief behind his expression. He shrugs.

"I've dealt with this, Ariadne. I've come full circle. I'm all right, I promise."

"Then maybe we could just talk about it," she urges, gently. "Like relive some good memories," Ariadne shrugs, and tries to offer a little smile. "Or… talk about any regrets you might have. _If_ you have any."

Arthur's fingertips are drumming lightly against the table top, and his gaze is a little distant. His face has never been the thing to let on to what he is truly thinking, and with a tiny shake of his head he only replies, soft and quiet, "There are so many things I regret," a deep inhale, before finally meeting her eyes, "but they're mine to regret. I'll bear them." After a moment Arthur begins to talk about Robert Wing, and his tone is smooth, and in control of itself.

Ariadne listens with half an ear. She knows she should be pleased with Arthur, and how he has not allowed this guilt to manifest into violence any longer. She thinks things she cannot say, perhaps not even to Cobb—like how it makes her a little sad that the projection has lost the fight from its soul. It hurts her to see the shadow in Eames' eyes, the ghost of longing that may not even really be there anymore—like it wants something it cannot understand.

She knows that this projection of Eames is nothing of the Forger, and that it is only Arthur, and the shades he remembers—and that makes her the saddest of all. It means Arthur has let go, and forgotten a little. He has let himself forget, and let himself get a little older. Even older than he should be. It is the price he pays for this new peace, and solace. In that, Ariadne is distantly grateful she is still young, and still a little foolish.

**CHICAGO, USA**

**December [ 8 years ago ]**

Eames loses consciousness when Cobb arrives on the scene.

Arthur is cradling Eames' head in his lap, the pale face between the Point Man's bloodied hands as he shakes Eames gently and urges him to keep his eyes open, keep breathing. The grey eyes are sightless, unblinking, and slowly begin to lose what little focus they have on Arthur.

Cobb still only watches. He knows he will have to stand between Arthur and the paramedics, but he does not bother to search for the reason why in this moment; in this panic. The ambulance wails from somewhere behind them, and the Forger's head sinks heavily to the side as he slips away. Cobb knows he will have to, but he does not understand why.

Yet, as the scene plays out, he still does not move. He watches the paramedics scatter, then settle over Eames' bloody, limp form and begin to hook him up to various instruments meant to save him. They speak in hushed, neutral tones to one another, and Arthur is off to the side, inoffensive for the moment. He is saying something over and over again to the man on his right, eyes hard, and fixed on Eames'.

"Bring him back, bring him back. Bring him back. Bring him back," The steady rhythm of the calm words crescendo into a harsh demand, and then Arthur is shouting. "Bring him _back_! Are you listening to me, bring him BACK!"

The paramedic makes the mistake of putting his hand on Arthur, pushing him back, and in a slightly less than neutral tone snaps at him to give them space to operate. A knee jerk reaction is the consequence, and Arthur lunges for the other man.

Cobb is there in seconds, his hands only able to seize the Point Man's elbows after he has taken hold of the paramedic's collar, and snarls into his face, "If he dies, you die," Arthur is quickly yanked back by the Extractor, and allows himself to be carted down the sidewalk. "If he dies _everyone_ dies! Do you understand me? If he dies—"

**[ Now ]**

Cobb's phone is ringing. He did not hear it at first, but it is reminiscent of a wailing ambulance. He rubs his eyes exhaustedly and sits up in his chair, thumb sinking into the receive button.

"Yeah," It is Ariadne, and he can tell she may have been crying before she decided to dial his number.

"Hey," her voice is soft, and she draws in a deep breath. "Just got back to the hotel. It's bad Dom. It wasn't like you said it would be, but it was still pretty bad." There is a little stab of guilt in the Extractor—briefly he is reminded that Ariadne still thinks Eames is dead, too, and it makes up a lot of the hurt in her tone.

"Are you all right? How violent did the projection get?"

There is a long pause. He can picture Ariadne's face, features contorting against the soft case of a pillow in an effort to find the best words. "… it wasn't violence, Cobb. I think it was worse. I think he's gone beyond that. The projection wasn't violent, or malevolent in the least. It hugged me. It told me it was sorry it missed my graduation. He was so real, I… I mean, I project Eames, too, but it's like… I don't know. It's like Arthur has the real one stored in him, and he's pushed all of this down so far—" she stops talking. She doesn't really have to continue, and Cobb nods, drawing in a long breath.

"I know," Cobb sighs. "He thinks it's over, but it's just begun. We'll have to be careful in the future, then." The door to Eames' room creaks open, and the nurse emerges from the crack in the white walls.

"He is awake, sir—I thought you might—" she cuts herself off, and Cobb immediately terminates the call, unable to hide the look of frustration on his face. He makes sure his phone is off before coming to stand. "I'm sorry, I—"

"It's all right, it's fine," Cobb allows her to escort him back into the hospital room. Eames' eyes are open, but he can hardly be considered awake. The pain medication circulating throughout his damaged system has him balanced between two worlds, the one of the dead, and the one of the living. He is pale, and stubble begins to work its way over his upper lip and over his jaw line again. His eyes are glazed over—sometimes they are dull, and sometimes, when he looks and sees only Cobb, they spark. The spark is only there a half-second, before it dies again.

"Hey," Cobb says softly, and leans in as far as he can without getting too close. Eames' mouth moves in a returned greeting, but only the ghost of a whisper escapes his dry lips. "Eames… how do you feel?" Again, the pale lips move, and if Eames did answer his question, Cobb once again could not hear such a strained, barely audible reply. The grey eyes are cloudy, and slightly unfocused, and when he tries to speak again Cobb leans in so close Eames' lips almost brush against his ear.

"… where… am I?" Even in this state, the traces of fear in the Forger's voice cannot immediately be identified. It is the fear that stalls Cobb's reply—Eames could be asking where he is as to his location on the American continent, or where he is as far as a dream as opposed to reality. Cobb's eyes quickly scan over the planes of Eames' body; he hesitates to touch the bandaged parts, and the parts now exposed are the skin graphs the doctors are allowing to breathe. Finally, he lets his palm drop onto the top of Eames' head, and gently strokes his unwashed hair in rare moment of tenderness.

"You're safe," is the reply, and Eames closes his eyes—in relief, or in defeat, Cobb is not sure. "You're in a hospital, in Ensenada. Do you remember anything?" Eames blinks, slowly, and his gaze rolls upward to meet Cobb's. His breathing is even, and his movements are slow—he will be under again, very soon, and Cobb does not try to keep him awake. He does not have the heart to, although he burns for answers.

"Was I the only one," Eames asks, softly, and gives no indication he even heard, or understood Cobb's question. He stiffens against the bed briefly, before slacking again. "Did they get…"

"No. They didn't get anyone else, Saito saw to that," his hand is still stroking Eames' hair, almost unconsciously, and he leans in, hoping to be heard this time. "Saito handled Diehl's people after we thought they'd killed you…" but Eames is out again, and Cobb takes his hand back, and wearily takes a seat. He hopes Eames will wake at least one more time. It is all he can hope for.

**SAN DIEGO COUNTY**

**SHARP CORONADO HOSPITAL**

**July [ 2 Years, 5 Months ago ]**

Arthur fingers his totem as he waits to be discharged. The red die turns over in his hand, again, and again, and he leans on the counter and absently nods to the nurse who is handling his paperwork. He has most certainly looked better—the Nordic Empress job earned him more than just a few bruises this time, but it was not something he was unprepared for. He is all right with the way he looks, because he is grateful he can still stand, and walk around, with two broken ribs and a cracked jaw. They will be quick to heal, as always.

What he cannot silence is the feeling that has been haunting him for years now. It has always manifested itself in violence, and darkness, and denial, but not now. Now it has become something new—a possibility. A possibility he had never really let sink into him, and now that it has, he is afraid, because he can fully identify it now.

It is not aggression, or fear—it has traveled beyond that. It has changed. _He_ has changed. Perhaps it was inevitable, this change. Perhaps the capacity for the change was there all along. Perhaps it took being left behind, and saved again, for him to understand it for what it is. Whatever the reason, he can no longer deny it. The feeling is love, and it always was.

What is even more bizarre is the word itself does not shake him to the core as it might have done years ago. It is what it is, and it will not depart him. He has surrendered to it. He has released his iron-grip on every pre-conceived notion of himself, every planned-assumption of how his life may have been, and the release is liberating. It is wonderful. It is thrilling, and calming, all at once.

He cannot walk quickly enough to the nearest cab—the fact that Eames was not there to greet him at the hospital does not surprise or hurt him. It may be love, but they are still men. They are still more brothers-in-arms than lovers, and Arthur does not need to be doted upon. He just needs to get there, to where Cobb said Eames was staying. He needs to get there, before it is too late. Almost an entire week has passed since the Nordic Empress, and given a week, Eames can move entire continents. It is a quality of the Forger's that has always fascinated and frightened Arthur.

He pulls up to the building, tips the driver an obscene amount, and hurries into the lobby. After the single longest elevator ride Arthur has ever taken, he calmly strides down the hallway (skipping a step or two in his approach) and his heart pounds as he searches for the gold set of numbers in the center of every door—

Eames' door is open. Not wide, but cracked—just enough so that anyone could enter if they really wanted to. When he opens the door, he wonders if Eames meant it to be that way, and with a half-smile he ventures into the dim light,

"Did we learn nothing from Miami, Eames?" His stomach clenches with fear and adrenaline when the reply he receives is an unexpected, high-pitched screech, and Arthur blindly rips his side arm from its holster, thrusting it forward with cold precision to the source of the sound. This time a familiar voice shouts his name, and the weapon is pushed harmlessly barrel-down to the ground. Arthur shudders, and blinks rapidly.

"Arthur no—it's—" Eames' hand is shaking a little, rather uncharacteristically, over his own as he keeps the weapon pointed nose down. Arthur holds his other hand up as if to let Eames know he has once again taken hold of reality, and the Forger releases him. Arthur respectfully averts his eyes from the original source of the scream—a naked woman, with long dark hair and a soft, curvy figure, who is utterly shaken. She scrabbles helplessly for the black sheets pooled around her, and Arthur turns to look on Eames, fully. He is half-naked, in a pair of loosely hanging trousers, no underwear, and his well-muscled, tattooed upper body dithered in sweat, streaked with nail marks, and otherwise marked with the signs of just having made love.

"I'm sorry," Arthur apologizes, feeling incredibly stupid, and for the first time in a long time, out of place. His insides sink, so far down, and it takes all of him to keep composure. "I'm sorry, I thought… you might be alone. I'm sorry."

"You're out, then," Eames says, quickly, and both hands are still in the air—he, too, does not seem to know what to do with himself. The grey eyes do not immediately meet Arthur's, and there is a sharp twang of angry pleasure in Arthur. Is this guilt, written across the Forger's usually guiltless visage? "Cobb said you would be this week. I thought later. Much later."

"I'm a fast healer," Arthur can hear the hoarse texture of his own voice, and decides it is best to make a hasty exit. He nods to the trembling, confused woman, and holsters his weapon. "I'm sorry, I am. Eames, I'll—see you at the rendezvous."

"Right," Eames has finally dropped his hands, and met Arthur's eyes—his entire posture has changed. His back is straight and his eyes are sharp—he is almost defensive. "Tomorrow then."

Arthur nods. "Tomorrow."

He cannot seem to draw in a full breath until he is out of the room, down the hall, and back in the elevator. And though he is hollow, now, of either joy or sorrow, he is not empty—he begins to fill again with a new sensation: a loneliness, and an anger. And he does not seek abatement.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **So so so sorry for the wait guys! I've been torn between this story (one of my greatest joys in life!), a manuscript I'm expected to edit, and three massive research papers! I promise, I go to bed every night exhausted but still wishing I could keep writing and post a chapter. Slack-age is not intended! Thank you so much for keeping up with it though, I promise it is almost over =) You all are the best.

**PART X**

**SAN DIEGO, USA**

**[Now - 1:26 AM]**

Arthur is not impressed with the drywall in his apartment. It is paper-thin, apparently. Three days ago, when he threw a beer bottle against it (after a prickly conversation with Cobb about Ariadne's visit, and what she found in his subconscious), the thick amber glass managed to crack the plaster and actually make a hole so deep he can stick almost his entire forefinger into it. Today is the day he has decided to patch the hole up, and try to think of better ways to vent after hanging up on his boss.

Arthur was never much of a 'handy man', per se, but it was always one of the mysteries that Eames had enjoyed about him. He could fix the oddest things: holes in walls, serpentine belts on cars, patches on busted radiators—not anything too complicated, or anything that took any enormous amount of knowledge or skill, it was just the idea that someone with Arthur's education, and the money his career brought in would not really _need_ to know how to do these things. And yet Arthur does. For one who so enjoys the feel of pressed, clean suits on his body, and the perfection and precision of a flawlessly executed plan, Arthur enjoys getting his hands dirty every now and again. It soothes him.

He has just finished spackling the hole in his wall when his phone goes off. Without looking, Arthur stoops to pick it up.

"Yeah," he says, and reaches for the cloth by his shoe, brushing the bits of wall from his bare hands.

"I've been thinking," the light accent is heavy with effort—as if the Forger is tired, or his throat has been rubbed raw. Arthur reaches into his pocket hurriedly. "I've been in this bloody Mexican hospital for several weeks now, and all I've had to look at—other than a few pretty Mexican nurses—is _Cobb's_ ruggedly handsome, rather distressed face. It got me to wondering where the _fuck_ you have been."

"A Mexican hospital?" Arthur closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, trying to control his breathing, and his voice, and his fingers stab into his other pocket. "Where are you? I didn't know, Eames, tell me where you are, I'll—" he fingers his totem, and falls to his knees, quickly rolling the loaded die across the linoleum and watching it land on a number. The _wrong_ number. Arthur feels every nerve in his body suddenly spark, and then cool. The flood is stopped, and dissipates, and his heart slows once more. "I'll come right away. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

There is a strained chuckle on the other end of the line. "Oh Arthur—always the last to know everything. I'll see you soon, then, love," the line goes dead, and Arthur rocks back onto his heels. He holds the phone close to his face, and inhales deeply. So he has dreamed this scenario again, so what. He hasn't had this dream in weeks—he is still making progress, even if it does not feel that way. Spackle and drywall forgotten, Arthur reaches for his gun on the coffee table. He doesn't want to linger on in this dream, like he used to.

Arthur wakes to a very dark morning rain on his window. He is laid out on his couch, with his ankles and arms folded, and his face pressed into the back cushion. The rain is gentle on his window pane, and the soothing rhythm keeps him in a half-state of sleep. He sleepily glances at his phone, and sees he has had a missed call. It is a number he does not even remotely recognize, and as he turns his phone back to silent, he distantly tells himself to investigate it in the morning. Part of him knows that when the sun rises, he will have forgotten it, but the thought barely reaches the surface before Arthur is pulled back beneath a heavy, comforting wave of sleep.

**SAN DIEGO **

**July [ 2 Years, 5 Months ago ]**

When Arthur hears the knock at his door, at close to three in the morning, he cannot tell if he is more relieved than irritated. It would be more of a relief to know exactly what he should feel, rather than have Eames knocking on the door for what is to either be an apology, or an argument. Again, Arthur does not even really know what the situation calls for anymore. It was he who declared them little more than friends with benefits. But it was Eames who kept insisting they were more, only to take for granted everything Arthur has put forward over the years. In a way, Eames has done that more so than even Arthur has—he pursued a straight man, and kept telling that straight man that anything he could get from him would make him happy. When Arthur gave everything he had, and could give no more, Eames would only lash out. Still—it is territory that has never before been trod by either himself, or the Forger. Perhaps diplomacy is in order, for once.

He opens the door and there Eames stands, light brown hair almost as dark as his own now as it plasters his head from the rainfall. He is beautiful, even with such a sour expression on his face, full lips extenuated by the pale stubble about his jaw, and rain drops like diamonds clinging on too-long eyelashes. The image is pathetic—a man standing in the rain, soaking wet, with his head leaning against the doorframe—but the look in Eames' eyes are anything but pathetic. They're sparking, defensively, and it makes Arthur bristle deep down.

"Can I come in?" is all Eames says, and Arthur leaves the door open before he turns and walks towards his kitchen. He can hear Eames follow suit, slow and deliberate. "You cornered me, Arthur. You gave me no other way out."

Arthur rubs his eyes, trying to look sleepy-like he'd really slept, at all. "Okay… what are you going on about, Eames? You fucked a woman. Big deal, we've all done it."

Eames stares at him a moment, not breathing, not blinking. Arthur stares back, and wonders how long he can really hold onto the "casual" demeanor, when Eames tosses his head back and _laughs_. It is a hideous cackle, mocking, but not at Arthur—it is all self-deprecation and bitter realization. After a moment he sobers up, and pushes his sopping wet hair back with his palm.

"So you felt nothing, then. Jesus, you could practically still smell it on the both of us. You felt absolutely nothing?"

"Was I supposed to? Was that a test?" Arthur snaps, hotly. He cannot help but allow his wall to crumble. "That was just a test, then, to see if it would make me feel something? You're _ridiculous, _Eames." He heads to his freezer and reaches for a bottle of scotch, hidden somewhere in the very back. "You're dripping on my carpet."

Eames is just standing there—his eyes follow Arthur's movements perfectly, but he does not appear to be looking at the other man. He looks almost dazed, but then his face begins to contort—he is concentrating on something. Finally, he takes a step forward, and leaves a wet shoeprint on the beige rug. He moves in close enough so that his face is inches away from Arthurs, but does not touch the other man. His grey eyes are dark, but earnest.

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry?" he asks, softly, and Arthur looks away. "I'll bite my tongue and say it, I'll swallow it down like bad medicine, but I _will_ say it. If that's what you want." Arthur is aware of the cold scotch in his hand, and the hard sound of rain on the windows. He is aware of the heat that creeps up the back of his neck and tingles his scalp, and the heavy rhythm of his heart beating wildly inside his chest cavity. He feels something rising in him, and he doesn't like it—not like earlier in the day, when the feeling was pure, and untainted. His defenses rise, as though his mind has been trained for this moment; to be so close to reconciliation, forgiveness, even. To be so close to what he wants, and not touch it. He has trained himself to see this moment coming, feel it all over his person, like the gust of a cool breeze, and watch it pass him by. He does not want Eames to say he is sorry, because that would make all of this real. He can't trust Eames enough to want it all to be real. "Arthur, tell me to say it and I will," Eames leans in entirely, and presses his forehead into Arthur's temple, snaking an arm around the back of his neck. Arthur is commanding his body to twist out of the hold, but it will not obey. "I'm sorry,"

"Don't," he says, evenly. And still he cannot extricate himself from the moment. "Don't say it."

"I'm sorry I fucked her," he rolls his forehead along Arthur's hair, and buries his nose into the crook of Arthur's shoulder. There is a faint scent of liquor about him when he speaks. "I wanted to be in someone who wanted me there. Who felt no shame. Can you give me that, darling? Could you ever give me that?"

"I told you what I could give you," Arthur replies, and finally manages to pull away from Eames. He goes back to the counter, to fix himself a drink. It quickly turns into a shot. "I told you what I couldn't give you. From the very beginning. There is nothing to apologize for. I told you I needed time. It is what it is, Eames."

Eames is still. His expression, his stance, and his eyes grow cold. Arthur takes his shot. "You told me that in the beginning, yes," he says softly, dangerously. "On the Nordic Empress you told me I was less than nothing to you—that while you would enjoy me for a time, you would trade me in a heartbeat for the 'good life'. That is what you _told_ me."

Arthur represses a shudder at the second shot, as it runs bitter down his throat. He swallows, hard, before turning to face the other man. "Then I'm the one who is sorry," he feels something begin to fade. Everything that was willing to fight for this in his soul begins to die, and he pours a shot, and holds it out to the other man. "For not being who you want me to be."

Eames accepts the offered drink, and shoots it down as quickly as Arthur does, dragging a rain-soaked sleeve across his lips when he is finished. He sets the shot glass on the counter, and comes into Arthur's space again, pressing a soft kiss against the tight line of the other's mouth.

"I don't need you to apologize," Eames says, gently. "I don't even need you to tell anyone what we have. I don't need you to call all of these moments, over years and years, a relationship. I just need you to be ready—for the day I have truly given up on you."

Something sinks inside him, and Arthur lingers in the moment, deathly still. He tries to feel nothing—he wanted to say he loved Eames that day, and although he knows it will never escape his lips now, he steels himself, and allows the other man's hands to slide over his shoulders, and come down to grip his biceps. Eames leans in for another kiss, and Arthur pulls back a fraction. He cannot bring himself to look into Eames' grey eyes, but he manages to speak, and his voice is shallow, and hoarse.

"Is… that day today?"

"Not today, love," Eames murmurs, and kisses him again, slow, and warm, and wet—he tastes like the rain. Eames breaks the kiss to pull him into an embrace, and it is warm as well, and safe, for now. "But soon," the Forger whispers, and it is the last of any words spoken on the subject. Arthur does not argue, or protest. He lets Eames have him that night, and the night after, and things continue as they always have—but Arthur no longer allows himself to think that he could have loved the other man.

**ENSENADA, MEXICO**

**[Now – 1:33 AM]**

Usually the morphine keeps Eames sedated, out of pain, and easy for the nurses to handle. The morphine keeps Eames trapped in a Hellish dream world, where none can follow, and he cannot bring himself to surface the waves of pain and memory. The morphine keeps him silenced. Months in this drug induced coma have felt like mere moments to him, and when he has the fractions of clarity that come when the drugs wear off there is only blinding pain to follow. He is sick with it, and lost in it, and through all of this blackness, all of the suffering, he knows he has to get out. He knows he has to make it to the surface, and survive, as he always has. Somewhere in this labyrinth, he is aware that someone else is suffering even more than he is—burning in Hell, with no chance of peace.

He stirs, and the pain ignites in his skin. The pain is always there, and it is the only thing he can recall in perfect clarity: the rest is just the sound of familiar voices, impressions, thoughts—some of which Eames does not even truly know to be real. He remembers speaking with Cobb, through a fog of barely tolerable agony. He remembers Maria Berrios' face, always watching over him but never speaking, a sadness in her dark eyes. There is also a voice that does not belong to any faces: accented, deep and smooth, but also too void of tone to be of any comfort. The doctor, in all likelihood.

_He'll be moving around soon. Asking questions, the like… he will be wanting answers. Whatever it is you intend to do, Mr. Cobb, I would suggest you do it soon._

And then Cobb was gone.

Eames stirs again, on some idle Tuesday, and Maria is there still—her beautifully aged face forms into a quiet smile, and a soft hand comes to rest on his forehead. The echoes and depth have left her voice, and the fog that has seemed to surround his bed has finally lifted. He brings a shaking hand to cover hers, and does not wish to close his eyes again.

"What would you like?" is all she says to him, and her velvet accent wraps around the words and the shadows of pain that still linger around his body begin to lift. He smiles back, and his dry, chapped lips crack almost delightfully.

"Water," his voice his still hoarse, but the notes of his personality have returned. His smile deepens into his cheek. "And a shit load of aloe, if you don't mind."

She nods, and the hand strokes down the length of his freshly cut hair. "I will go speak with the doctor to see what I can do for you." When she stands Eames snaps a hand out at speeds he did not know he could still achieve, and she pauses at his bedside. Eames clears his throat, shakes his head and clears that too.

"Cobb," the name comes out a little rough, but the rest of his words smooth out of that gravelly tone as he continues to speak. "My team. Have they been by? Do you know if they are all right?"

Maria squeezes his hand, but the look on her face makes Eames repress a shiver. She leans in and kisses his temple. "They are all right, Jonathan. But only Cobb has come by," she lets him go. "Let me go speak with this doctor, then you and I will speak. Drink your water, and rest. I'm coming back," she gathers her things, and is out the door. Eames reaches blindly at the side table for the little plastic cup of water, and he drinks it like it is the first drink he has had in years, and when he replaces it the urge to find more is suddenly forgotten. His hand brushes over the curve of an old-fashioned, beige telephone.

A new urgency strikes him, accompanying a cord of bitterness. His fingers dial a number not fire, water, death, or reality could ever make him forget. His insides feel hollow and all that lives in his chest is the pounding of his heart as it rings. Then clicks.

"Yeah," it is Arthur, distracted, and by the sound of his voice the phone is wedged between his ear and shoulder. He is busy with his hands.

"Suppose I really don't deserve a call," Eames has learned by now that this line works on Arthur, but that is not why he uses it.

"Where are you," the voice is a little more distracted now—he hears a rustling of clothing, the slide of a hand into a pocket. "What number is this?"

"Some bloody Mexican hospital. I can't even tell you my room number at the moment, love, my only link to reality just left the room—" There is a loud clatter in the background, and the line is dead. Eames pauses a moment, and wonders if perhaps he should try to call back, or wait for Arthur to pick the phone back up and make the effort. When Arthur does not call him back, he is left to wonder—and a thousand deadly scenarios play through his mind. He is still scowling at the phone when Maria enters, and the look on her face could break a heart. He scowls at her, too. "What?"

"Tell me," Maria is breathless. "What have you done, Mr. Eames?"

**VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA **

**The Diehl Job**

**[ 2 Months ago ]**

"What is wrong with you?" Arthur is snarling, and the walls are shaking, the walls are shimmering, and pulsing. Eames is losing control of his dream—he feels it breaking around them, and yet he cannot seem to keep his feelings in check. He justifies this by reminding himself that the Mark already knows what they are trying to do, and so it is only a matter of seconds before they are overcome with resistance anyway. And yet, he knows Arthur will not forgive him for this weakness. Arthur's hands are on his shoulders, shaking him, hard, and Eames can only stare back at him. "We have four minutes left—we have to finish this in the next—"

The doors give way, and a flood of projections cover the floors and fill the staircases, their feet pounding each step in a drum-like rhythm. Arthur lets him go and instantly has a gun in each hand, firing into the crowd to keep them away from Cobb, who is now on the third level of this dream and is waiting for Arthur to follow. Eames' weapon of choice is something he dreamed up—it is a cross between a double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun and an AR-15, and if one could imagine such a weapon it would be Eames. Arthur had initially scoffed when they entered the second level, and the Forger chose to tote around such a monstrosity—but Eames had anticipated this sort of ending to this job, and the possibility of not really needing to aim, _or_ reload, was something he would gladly trade the art of a good, clean kill for.

He is able to spray the crowd with a decent enough dose of fire-power to keep them reeling, some blowing to pieces and others sprawling back and knocking the other projections back down the staircase. It is still only a stall—projections feel things like pain, and fear, but unlike the dreamers themselves, they do not hold back because of it. Arthur is crouched over Cobb protectively as the other man stirs, and begins to yank the IV out of his arm.

"What happened?" Cobb's voice is all but drowned out over the roar, and the pounding of Eames' gunfire. Arthur, tight-lipped and hard-faced in his concentration, just shakes his head once and continues to fire, taking head shots at each projection that dares crawl back up the steps.

"Never mind, did you get it?"

Cobb nods, and pulls his own gun out. "Yeah, but he knows—just pray we wake up before him. Two minutes and counting, unless we want to make our own way out," he cocks his pistol, and puts it to his temple. Arthur shakes his head, and grits his teeth, firing off another three rounds.

"You go, get a head start—I'll stay behind and make sure the projections don't kill him. That way we at least have a stall—"

"They're going to tear you to _pieces_!" Eames shouts from beside Cobb— soot and anger mar his beautifully twisted features. "If we all end it now we can still have a head start!"

"Not if there is a chance the Mark's people can catch up to us and torture the blueprints out of the Extractor!" Arthur does not wait for another word to come out of Eames' mouth before he suddenly swings his arm around and crushes the barrel of his gun into Cobb's forehead, spitting off a single shot and watching his employer and long-time friend crumble to the floor. Eames ceases fire a moment, long enough to lock eyes with Arthur, whose face is closed. Cobb's blood paints Eames' face and neck in a splattered pattern, and he does not flinch as three projections rush to his side and disarm him. He does not react as they claw at his hair and his face, does not react as Arthur fires twice at his attackers before he too is overtaken.

"Is this worth it?" Eames shouts over the fray, violently shoving his attackers carelessly aside. "This death—these two long minutes of torture, is it worth it Arthur?"

One of the Point man's guns is taken from him, and he only shakes his head hard, once. "It's what I do Eames! It's what I do." He levels his gun at Eames' forehead, in what is actually a tender gesture intended to put Eames out of further pain—but just as he prepares to fire a projection is beneath him, and thrusts the jagged end of a broken broomstick up into his torso. Arthur crumbles, and his piercing scream echoes around the walls of the dream as his ribs are broken, and split away from one another. Eames screams something, and then the Point Man's name, over and over again as the smaller man spits out a mouthful of blood.

He rolls his eyes up to lock them with Eames', and in a final effort raises his gun again. He fires. Eames is silenced, and his agony is ended with cool blackness. In the moments between dream and reality, he can still hear Arthur's screams.


	11. Chapter 11

**PART XI**

**ENSENADA, MEXICO**

**[Now – 1:36 AM]**

"Don't look at me like that," Eames tries his best to pull himself up in the uncomfortable little bed, until he is resting on his elbows. It takes everything in him to do as much, but the look on her face is downright frightening. "Maria, _what_?"

"You have not spoken with Dom," she is uncertain, and hesitantly approaches the bed. Eames tenses, and pain flares in unused muscles. Maria takes her seat. "Jonathan… you have been in this hospital for some time. After you all parted ways on the Diehl job your companions tried to contact you. They found your hotel room and the body left behind… your clothes and totem were on it, and you'd burned it unrecognizable. You were assumed dead, until it came time to clean out your London home."

"Those bastards were in my flat?" Eames feels himself color slightly, bewildered, and images of every secret that may link him to Arthur in every way Arthur didn't want begin to roll through his mind. He runs a still-bandaged hand through his hair. "Can't a man die in peace?"

"Dom was able to trace me from there, and found you. I am so sorry—I did not consider all this time, while trying to protect you from your enemies, I was keeping you from those who love you," her hand comes to rest on his cheek. "Dom, when he saw you may not recover, did not wish to give the rest of your team the same grief they have lived with for months. You see… he is the only one who knows you are alive."

This is when Eames feels himself freeze, and his blood runs cold. "So what you are telling me," he is still hoarse in the throat, and his words come out almost a growl. "Is when I picked up the phone, and dialed Arthur's number for a very casual 'fuck you, where are my flowers', I possibly gave him a heart attack because I essentially called him from beyond the grave?"

Maria does not respond to the wry note in his voice, but she does pull back a little. "Dom left three days ago to tell them. He said he was going to see Arthur first… but he did not want to say it over the phone."

"This is ridiculous—utterly ridiculous that no one bothered to tell him. Who the hell came up with that idea?"

"Jonathan..." Maria's voice is thin. "You did."

The phone lingers in the air between them, and Eames, still clouded with the ghost of pain, and the wear of his recovery, cannot recall speaking the words. And yet they still chill him to the bone.

"…when?"

"When they told you that you may never walk again," hesitant pity hangs on her words. "You don't remember…"

What Eames remembers is the silence.

_The silence that was broken by the squeak of the turning knob, and the click of the safety disengaging on his weapon. He waits in the stillness of this moment, and readies the revolver. His killer makes his way through the door, but does not immediately strike. In fact, he seems a little puzzled. _

"_So you knew."_

"_I knew," Eames cannot help the curl of his upper lip, the baring of imperfect teeth. "You're all very predictable. In the end."_

"_I suppose that is how you have stayed alive this long," the man is an uglier assassin, in the last fifteen years of assassins Eames has dealt with. He is somewhat full of himself, and his own imperfect teeth gnash as he inhales, and adjusts his belt with the hand not holding his own revolver. "But you've also got to imagine… I have stayed alive this long for the same reason. And the end result is, as you say, rather predictable."_

"_Really."_

"_You're first, you see," he waggles the gun level with Eames' face, leisurely shifting his weight to the other foot. "Your point man is next. Through him we find your architect, who will give us your extractor. The architect always breaks the easiest."_

"_And what if I'm the architect, and in my death I've given you nothing?"_

"_The architect betrays himself. The architect is logical, but not a killer. There is nothing of logic about you, Mr. Eames. And if indeed someone were to have taken over the role of the architect, that person would have to be as logical a designer—again, nothing you have to offer. I suppose the next place I would be looking for information would be the point man. Arthur, his name?"_

"_You leave that boy alone." _

_A smug little quirk of the corner of his mouth. "Ah. See? Not a logical bone in that body of yours."_

"_You're wasting your time."_

"_You've volunteered so much information in the last two minutes, I hardly agree." He leans in a little. "So tell me, Mr. Forger, your Point Man," a whisper this time. "Does he break easily?" _

_Eames is not logical by nature. Often, he reacts before thinking, and this causes him to falter. Sometimes he is the most human of his team, and so in error he draws a fraction of a second too slow, and when he shoots the other man, the other man shoots him back. He remembers seeing red in the instant the words were spoken, and then spinning onto the floor. His miscalculation has earned him a wound to his side. How bad, he doesn't know, but the other man is up again before he is. There is a moment where Eames is aware of the gun still resting in his fingers, and he is able to seize it before he is hauled haphazardly onto the rumpled bed. The assassin's face is torn open on one side, a graze that was too far off to do anything worse than lay open his cheek—an injury that has done more to enrage him than debilitate him. Eames knows he will not have another opportunity to save his own life. _

_And yet reality is only a buzzing in his head, a ringing in his ears. Part of him is still waiting for Arthur to burst through the door, and it is only when the pressure of the barrel lodges into his thigh that he realizes he is wholly on his own. _

"_You could've gotten out of this in one piece," comes the throaty hiss of the other's voice. "Now you've cost yourself a leg—" _

_Words rise in his throat just before his femur is shattered into some forty pieces, but all he can do is—_

His memory of the night in Tijuana stops abruptly there, with the remnants of such mind numbing pain. He tries to move his leg beneath the blanket, but it is heavy, and does not seem to respond. Eames pulls back the spread to reveal sunken flesh tightly stretched over _poorly_ stitched muscle. He tries to pull his knee up, and meets a flare of _tight_ pain.

"There is a rod replacing your femur," Maria tells him, from somewhere, so far away. "Jonathan. Jonathan—we almost lost you. It could have been much, much worse. Do you not see that?"

"I do. I also see I will be of no more use to those in my field. Not unless they want to wheel me to the getaway. Now what do you suppose I do about all this?"

"Count your blessings, Mr. Eames," her tone begins to narrow into a sort of chide, and she sits a little further away from him. "Count your blessings and try not to feel so sorry for yourself. You were never the sort to do such a thing. And, no matter what the condition of your physical form, there are still those that would have preferred you died here. I suggest you be on your guard."

Eames hears her, but does not acknowledge her words. The selfish part of him cannot take his eyes off of the battered condition of his leg—how small, and battered, and ruined it looks amongst the rumpled sheets. The selfish part of him wonders what Arthur may think of him now, if suddenly saddled with an invalid as a lover. The selfish part of Eames is suddenly not so certain he wants to pick the phone back up.

**VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA **

**The Diehl Job**

**[2 Months ago]**

Arthur remembers the foul metallic taste of blood gurgling up in his throat like vomit just before the wall behind him gave way, and the bliss of a free falling sensation pulled him back into reality. The reality he awakens to is not unlike the dream he has been liberated from—rushed, loud, bright, and full of urgency. Eames is over him, yanking the IV out of his arm just as Arthur bolts upright in his chair.

"Assholes!" he spins to begin packing up the device—Cobb is hovering over Anthony Diehl, probably administering a good dose of chloroform to the Mark. "What the fuck are you still doing here?"

"Don't mention it, you're very welcome Arthur," is all Eames says, just before removing and cocking his sidearm. His tone is cold, and his face his closed. "I wasn't going to leave you there. Not another minute."

Arthur feels the snap. He feels his chest and his guts and his muscles tighten and his control buckle under the weight of such blinding anger, still mingled with the waking pain of the dream. His arm shoots out before he can stop it and his fingers curl into Eames' rolled sleeve and jerks the other man so close so quickly he almost loses his balance.

"So you did it for me?" he snarls, hot in Eames' face. "You did all this for _me_, to save _me_? You're fucking complete lack o_f control has murdered us all!" _

To Eames' credit, he has the control to not pull his gun in the heat of such a moment. But he does strike back, and deliver an iron grip to the Arthur's forearm. "Would you have preferred me to rescue you later? Mewling in your own blood and vomit—you'd go to the ends of the earth for _him_, Arthur, but for yourself, or the man you—"

"Fuck you-!" Arthur feels his arm wrench back to strike. He doesn't notice Cobb drop what he is doing to fly between them, barely feels himself react and does not see his fist shoot by Cobb and get blocked at the last minute—Eames does not seem to realize the blow will not land, and instead retaliates too fast for Cobb or Arthur to stop him. He busts Arthur's lip before Cobb can even attempt a block, and is violently shoved backward by the Extractor, who is practically using his entire body to restrain Arthur.

"Hey—HEY!" Cobb is furious, and it brings Arthur back into reality. "Save it, we have a chopper to catch—NOW! Arthur!"

The Point man's blood is boiling but he obeys, and effortlessly swipes up the briefcase just before removing his own weapon and holding it straight-armed in front of him. Cobb shoots Eames a brief sidelong glance to make sure the Forger is following, and though the sprint to the hallway and up the stairs is urgent, it is completely silent.

Arthur's hand pushes on the small of Cobb's back as they both file into the chopper, and he turns to make room for Eames. The Forger's arm is braced on the door; pale eyes hard on his own and usually full lips a tight, angry line.

"Last chance," he says, hoarsely, over the beating wind of the blades overheard. "You coming to Mexico?"

Arthur drags a sleeve across his chin, and the red blood darkens into the material. "If you go, you're a fucking idiot."

"That's a no then?"

"That's a no," Arthur snaps, and Eames nods curtly, and takes a step back. "What the fuck—where are you going?"

"Don't worry," Eames ducks out of the door's way, "You won't be hearing from me again." He slams the door, and Arthur watches out the window, distantly, as he is jerked upward, spiraling into the sky and away from the Forger, until he is a speck on the launch pad.

Cobb's hand is suddenly on his shoulder.

"The fuck was that? Where is he going, they'll be on him in minutes—"

"No," Arthur blots his lip again, and pulls it into his mouth to run his tongue over it. It actually hurts worse. "Just a job. Just another job. He'll be alright." Deep down Arthur is not to certain that is true, but he is more angry than concerned, and it twists in his gut and churns like magma within him. Eames can take care of himself, says the voice in the back of his head.

He has always been best at that.

**SAN DIEGO **

**[Now]**

Arthur stares at the phone, and does not feel the time pass around him. Every instinct he has tells him that this has not been a dream. That this is real, and everything he has believed for what has felt like forever is in fact, not real. The heat in his skin, the swimming in his head, the sweat beading on his forehead—these things would not be happening if his totem had not been rolled. And yet, the die has not failed him in ten years. If he cannot trust it, he cannot trust anything. Eames is alive, and there is only one thing left to do about it. Arthur scrapes the phone off of the floor, and with violently shaking hands checks his received calls. He dials the Mexican number, and when the Spanish recording streams into his hear he quickly ends the call.

He sits there for what feels hours, and watches the sunlight turn dark orange across his surroundings. Shadows begin to surround him as the evening closes around him. He does not know how long he has been sitting here, and when he his mind begins to travel to places unknown, places that frighten him to his very core, he rolls the die. He brings himself back to reality. It is something like five in the afternoon when he finally hears the scrape of a key, and the groan of an opening door. Without looking up he blankly reaches to his side to draw and cock his weapon, holding it level with his temple. He never intended to fire—Arthur has been waiting for this visit.

"So he got to you first," It is Dom, standing in his doorway. The only man ever to own the spare key to his apartment has apparently known for some time. Arthur, however, cannot look up from his position on the floor. His posture is one of a man defeated. "I didn't want you finding out this way."

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and his jaw hangs agape his mouth, as one might try to repress a gag. The steel of the gun is cool against his face.

"How long?"

"A few weeks." Considering the situation, Dom's tone is _rather_ cool. "I'm sorry, Arthur."

"He's alive," in his other hand the die rocks slowly and deliberately between each long finger, calculating. Finally, he is able to look up. "When were you planning on telling me?"

Dom's visage is plain, honest—he is not proud of his actions, but he also refuses to hide from them. He remains by the door, his eyes locked on Arthur. "I made a mistake. I should have told you from the second I found out, but I didn't want to cause you anymore pain. I was afraid you would lose him twice. I wanted to protect you, can't you see?"

"To protect me…" Arthur's dark eyes fall to the floor again, and his weapon lowers. He lingers in an uneasy silence for a moment before a _fake, short_ laugh rises in his throat. "To protect me. And if the situation were reversed, and I had kept Mal from you? You wouldn't have wanted one more moment with her, to say all the things you should've? To take back the things you shouldn't have? To hear her voice—"

"You know it is never that simple," Dom cuts him off. "Not with what we do. The life we've chosen."

"You're full of shit," it is a snarl, but it does not faze the Extractor. Instead he moves forward a step, and then another. Hands still in his pockets, he lowers himself to kneel before his Point Man.

"Arthur," softer, now. "You've heard his voice so often in your dreams you wouldn't know the difference now. You've been rolling that totem for the past three hours trying to convince yourself this is real." Dom reaches out and rests a hand on Arthur's shoulder, and feels the muscles tighten beneath his palm. "It's alright to admit it. It's alright to embrace it. No one knows what reality feels like more than you do. You know this is real." Arthur is still, and quiet. Dom takes this as permission to continue. "He hasn't said much. He is in pretty bad shape, but he called you, so obviously he is on the mend. I just want you to be prepared."

Arthur's eyes remain on the floor, but the slightest hint of a smile forms on the corner of his mouth. It vanishes like a ghost. "I'll never be prepared."

**VENICE**

**July [7 Months ago ]**

It is the end of something. It hangs stale in the air between the two bodies, and mingles with the smoke in the hotel room. This is the silent end of a war for Eames—one he has fought for so long he can barely remember what he has been holding onto all this time. It is the price he pays for having taken this leap of faith on another so conflicted with his own sense of identity, and reality, that he may never know what he truly wants. The hope that one day he would decide—that enough time alone, and time away would have him realize what he has had, and what he has lost will make him one day come round is gone. There are no more words to be said, no more fights to be had, or passionate rants to spark one last tiny ember to remind Arthur of what the years have given the two of them. The problem has always been the same: Arthur cannot be reminded, because he never knew. He does not want to know.

Arthur is on his side, and sleeps so lightly it is almost impossible to tell if he is actually out, or is faking it to avoid the strain between them. Arthur is weary of the strain, and Eames knows this—but Eames is tired, too. He is tired of giving, and fighting, and giving even more. In this, Eames feels the strain more than Arthur ever would.

He has changed, for all of his efforts to change Arthur, and it is something of a miracle. At a very young age, Eames realized he was beautiful, and this gave him power. First over women, then over men, and then over this very unique line of work. He has always accredited his almost perfect record to skill, but the truth is he has a gift. That gift brought him into the world of Forging and Extracting, and while it brought him success, it also brought him misery.

This misery would often come out of the shadows in the blackest hour of the night, after the last drink had been bitterly consumed to bring him down from the last line, _robotically_ inhaled from a glass-top table. It would appear after the thought of living forever had long since faded from the smoky haze that clouded his mind—the reality that he was alone, having given yet another part of himself away, covered in _cum_, and shame, and guilt. That on the outside was something entirely separate from what he was on the inside—pitiful and cold. Ruined and used. It was a knowledge he kept sedated with drugs and drink.

To keep from changing, he summed it all up to the life of an exhibitionist, a libertarian. To say otherwise was to admit that he was unhappy, and Eames would not let that be _his_ reality. The truth is that Arthur saved him from that. Arthur, without even knowing it, pulled him out of that prison, and brought him into the light. Arthur showed him something different, and it had been worth fighting all this while for. He may never realize, or come to appreciate that, and so their war will continue, but at least for now, Eames has his answer. That is why he has remained, and has always returned.

Arthur stirs beside him, and Eames rolls over to put the rest of his cigarette out. He feels the warm body brush against his, and an arm slide across his bare torso—but, in the half second it takes Arthur to remember he is next to another man, the arm slides back, and Arthur simply lays there. The strain dies a little in Eames, and dissolves into soft defeat. He can offer Arthur a smile.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **My deepest apologies for the enormous gap in these chapters. I am so sorry to disappoint you all, who gave me such gracious words and encouragement. This story is my joy, and I am going to try and find it in me to finish it in the next month. **Thanks to everyone who has given this a shot, and decided to keep reading.  
**

**Part XII**

**New Orleans, USA**

**December [ 4 years ago ]**

_"__Oh, 'men like you'?"_

_"__Men like me. Men who make thousands of dollars per job and yet only have a tiny apartment in California that never has any food in it, because the consequences of said jobs generally result in my having to get out of town for a while before I'm gunned down, or shanked on my way to take a piss in the middle of the night. Men who invade the dreams of others to extract their deepest secrets. Men who—"_

_"__Men who cannot seem to part with a certain Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle bedspread that is still folded up in the closet can certainly pose for pictures," Eames' tongue is pinned beneath his teeth now as he diverts all focus to the shot, but a grin begins to form. "Oh yes, Arthur—I saw it."_

_A snap, but no flash. Eames still manages to capture the smile that made the picture worth saving. _

_"__It was a gift," Arthur tries for an excuse, still unable to look up from the toe of his shoe. _

_"__Ah, but some gifts aren't meant to be_ kept forever," Eames grins, and the camera flashes again. Arthur turns his back entirely to the camera. "If you love something, let it go—"

"If it was entirely necessary to 'let go' of a childhood memory, I would do it without hesitation," his posture changes, somewhat defensively. "And stop going through my things."

"Your flat is so incredibly small it's difficult _not_ to go through your things," Eames tries to frame another picture. Author's shame is so glorious, aluminated by the twinkling lights around him. "I got up to take a piss and found myself in your hall closet… really, love. With the money you make, it may be time to upgrade."

"Upgrade."

"Yes, upgrade. You know, a house, perhaps. I can be a very compliant roommate, you know," The flash goes off again, but the image captured is somewhat less agreeable—it is a skeptical scowl across dark eyebrows, and a smirk across the thin lips. "Well you certainly know how to spoil a moment. And a picture."

"I don't know why you take those."

"Nothing wrong with wanting to remember the high points in your life," Eames is quiet for a moment, distant, and slides his camera back into his pocket. He knows his next words are likely to be met with some sort of snide remark, but it has been a wonderful few days, so he asks the inevitable anyway, "So. Have you thought about what I said?"

The scowl fades. Arthur ducks his head a little further. "Eames."

"You're telling me you've never thought of another life?" Eames jerks his chin upward, towards the glittering street lights, and the stars hanging above them; to the noise of the street—people walking home from Christmas shopping, family's hustling into restaurants for a last minute dinner, a couple huddling together for warmth on a bench across the street. "You think any of these people are packing? I sincerely doubt it. We're probably the only two people on this block with an arsenal in our trousers."

"You've never lived in New Orleans, have you?"

"You know what I mean."

"I have thought of that," Arthur admits, and his eyes are still focused on his shoes. "But I feel like I'm needed here. I'm good at this."

"You're good at most anything, you could do whatever you wanted," Eames fires back. "Arthur?"

"I can't stand the idea of someone else watching Dom's back," Arthur snaps, and clearly against his better judgment. Eames' face twists into a scowl. "Don't look at me like that, alright? He's got the two kids, and Mal, and—"

"And because of them, eventually, he _will_ have to choose between this job, and his family," Eames quietly interrupts. When there is no rebuttle, his shoulders and brows unanimously raise. "Arthur, _really_?"

"Look," the other reaches out and grabs his bicep with strong, thin fingers, and turns him in the direction of their hotel. There is a roughness to the touch, a very icy and deliberate movement, but Eames goes with it all the same. "We're in New Orleans at least for another week. Cobb promised not to call anyone in for a job until at least halfway through January. I told you I would consider it, and I don't feel like arguing. Besides," there is a smile hanging on the edge of his words. "Be realistic—are you really ready to retire? There aren't enough winning poker hands or fast cars to make up for the rush that comes with what we do. Not mention you'll have to give up shooting me at the first sign of trouble."

Eames halts their stride, until Arthur is forced to turn, and look at him. There is only a ghost of laughter on the sharp features, before it disappears entirely. "Perhaps I have seen you killed one too many times."

There is a moment of silence, and then Arthur decides to look past the look in the Forger's eyes. Instead, he takes his arm again, and replies with a grin, "Really? I never get tired of shooting _you_."

"Well that was rather unkind."

"Just saying," Arthur only hesitates a moment, and then they are back to the pavement. "So you're a good roommate?"

"You'd have to do the dishes."

"I knew there was a catch," Arthur laughs a little, and his shoulders shake. Eames is content to let it go. For now.

**CHICAGO, USA**

**December [ 8 years ago ]**

"I made you something,"

Arthur is suddenly made aware of his surroundings. Instead of the dark streets and blaring lights there is a coffee table before him, and three wide glass windows directly ahead. It gives, what some would call, a beautiful view of the city; but Arthur has seen all he wants to of this city. He can hear Mal tinkering around in the kitchen, and suddenly she is at his side with one of her warm hands sliding over his shoulders.

"This will steady your nerves," she says again, and reaches hands him the steaming cup of tea. He takes it, but does not immediately drink. "Arthur—are you alright?"

"Why won't he let me go?" Arthur asks, almost robotically, and keep his eyes steady on the windows. His fingers tighten around the cup. "I should be there. He took those rounds for me."

"Perhaps you scared everyone a little," she tells him, her warm, gentle words turning his attention to her face. Mal smiles softly, and the thin, dark brows raise. "You threatened the paramedics, no?"

"I was angry," he can still smell the blood on his clothes. Somewhere in the very back of his head, the lights are still flashing, the sirens still singing. It is not so unfamiliar, but the buzzing is constant. He has dealt with this sort of thing before, but this—this will not go away, it will not dull with the passing of the hours, the comforting scents around Mal and Dom's house, or the steam ebbing from the cup in his hands. It will not just _disappear_. "I overreacted. It was stupid."

"It was instinct. Your friend was in trouble, they told you your friend may die," Mal's hand is at the nape of his neck, her fingers in his short dark hair. Soothing. "Arthur… he will be just fine. You took care of him, you held him until help arrived. He will not forget, and he will be alright. I promise."

"We should've left earlier," his words are clipped. He has distanced himself from her, this room, that alleyway somewhere in Chicago, where Eames' blood is mixing with the falling rain. "We should've left with the others. We should've known better than to celebrate. I should've known someone would be after us."

"He knew the risks, too," she reminds him. "He knew what he was doing, and when the worst happened, he did what he had to in order to protect you." Her cheek comes to rest against his temple, and Arthur feels the tension ease out of worn muscles. She leans in so close her lips move gently against his ear. "Because he loves you."

Arthur pulls away, and stares at her incredulously. The phone rings. Eames is out of surgery.

**Tijuana, Mexico**

It is very early in the morning. Perhaps three, or four, and Eames can hear raindrops just outside the half open door. Not actually a rain shower, or a storm, but the aftermath is what he is hearing—droplet by droplet. It takes a moment for his other senses to return; a wet mattress beneath him, the stench of blood and gunpowder around him. There is only darkness, but somewhere in the corner of his sight there is a light, and on his lips there is a very familiar flavor mixing with the blood from his mouth. He reaches in his pocket for his totem, but finds nothing but lint and a cigarette lighter.

"It's not there," the voice is rough, and Eames tries to focus on the source. He turns his head, and feels nausea rise in his throat-the pain makes his head swim, but he is able to lift himself off the bed just enough to see the man in the corner. "Though I suppose it doesn't matter…" the man holds up the poker chip. "Your totem is no longer sacred, so really, even if you were dreaming, you would not know it."

Broken skin and bleeding cuts sting across his face and neck, but nothing compares to the pain swarming to his thigh as consciousness begins to fully return. There are tight bandages staunching the flow of blood, and what looks like one of the chair legs taped to the mess of blood and torn flesh. Eames' squeezes his eyes shut, tight. Now is not the time to get a weak stomach.

"Well, as hitmen go, you're rather a shitty one, wouldn't you say?" The Forger can hear his voice is tight with pain and clawing to remain somewhat steady, but begins to feel his head clear. Perhaps there is a reason God would allow someone to survive such agonizing pain. "When exactly are you planning on performing 'the hit'?"

"Actually I was hoping to get to know you a little better," He moves slowly, with effort, but still seems in control of his injured body. "You see I can't figure you out…"

"Oh Jesus," Eames is grateful he is willing to pull off a dry, mocking tone. "We're getting introspective. God willing I'll bleed out soon."

"You've reached the end here, and I'm not sure how to define you. You're not exactly a drunk, not too fiendish for the nose candy to be an addict, only somewhat of a gambler," He reaches into his bloodied shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He manages to pull one out with a bandaged hand, and get it lit. "So?"

"Well, see, that's where you've completely gotten it wrong," The Forger tries to get up on his elbows, but it is difficult. "I'm actually a hell of a gambler."

"You're a gambler, but not a risk taker. You blow your money, but when it comes to the job, you're just not as willing to jump off the cliff as the others, are you?" There is a bizarre expression on his face, and Eames is having trouble placing it. "Well-as long as your Pointman is on the job. Otherwise, yes, you are quite the gambler."

"Listen," Eames can taste the blood between his lips; it is salty and metallic on his teeth, and down the back of his throat. He knows it is unlikely he will be able to jet across the room and get his own weapon, which is sitting across from him by the telephone. He also knows it has probably only been set there as a tease, to wet his desperation, and the odds of it still being loaded are slim to none. The hit man has concealed his own gun—it is probably tucked between the small of his back and his belt. That will make this difficult, but not impossible. Unfortunately, it means they will have to get a closer than Eames really wanted. "If you think you're the first goon to ever try and torture information out of me, you're sadly mistaken. And if you really think you're going to get into my head and make it easier on yourself, you're really off your rocker. Better off trying to sell ice to an Eskimo."

The other man takes this criticism rather well. He drags off his cigarette, and smoke creeps up from an easy smile. "And how do you know I'm not already here?" Eames feels that drop in his belly, and knows it all too well. It hasn't happened in sometime, but at this very moment he may or may not be stuck in another's dream, without a totem, and little else that will be able to bring him back to reality. The hit man has caught this, and the smile widens. "So since you and I are likely to be here for," he glances at his watch, and his brows raise. "Well, at least another few days, we may as well try to help one another."

"So," Eames feels his posture begin to slacken, against his will. "I'm to be bested at my own game."

The sheer giddiness on the other's face is coming through, even as he attempts to repress it. "I am sorry about that," he says. "It is difficult to swallow one's own mistakes. You would've have a better chance in reality, I should think, but since we're here—"

"—been extracting long, have you?" Eames cuts him off, and the hit man seems almost annoyed by this—he has struck the ego. When he does not answer, Eames finds it in him to force his body upward, fully sitting up and supporting his weight on his palms. His leg does not respond with the pain he was expecting, and it furthers his suspicions that the injury is only a lingering memory of the reality he just awoken from. It is something he will have to deal with when he gets back, but not at the moment. When the hit man only furrows his brow, it is Eames' turn to flash a nasty smile. "I'll take that as a no. You see, this is not a game of the 'every man'. It takes years upon years of trial and error, succeeding and failing, to come out the other side as I have."

"Are you going somewhere with this?" the man's smile is now a thin line, and his hand creeps to his waist. He is beginning to doubt, however he tries to hide it. "Because I was really hoping not to take all three days to find out where the others are."

"Years ago," The Forger continues without missing a beat, but does not advance on the other. "When I was new at this, I made the mistake all rookies do. You never, ever, under any circumstances, no matter how you think it will work to your advantage," the hit man's hand is now fully behind his back, and the sound of metal on skin, the weapon sliding out of its hiding place, is not as subtle as he would probably have preferred. "…tell the subject he is dreaming."

"And why is that?" There is suddenly a sharp impact upon the rusty hotel room door, and the hit man draws his weapon and aims it leeringly towards the sound. It comes again, and he glances over at Eames, licking his lips, wide-eyed. "What is this?"

"My subconscious. They're about as unfriendly as any violated subconscious, but they're also trained," Eames shrugs, and his smile gets wider when the gun is suddenly aimed square at his chest. The doorframe crunches a little with the next impact, and the gunman is not sure where his next few shots are needed more. Eames laughs. "Told you this isn't a game for the everyman."

"You limey fuck," he is sweating now, and nervously crosses the gun back to Eames, both hands clenching it and even shaking a little. "How do you know the next level down isn't just as much as a dream? You don't. I have your totem down there too. Even if they kill me up here, you're still a dead man!"

"Like you said," the door frame splinters, and once again the gun is trained on the intruder. "I'm a gambler."

The first shot rings out when the metal door is crashed off of it's hinges, and several bodies make their way through. The first is the hotel clerk, who takes two in the chest before he is stopped, and then the bartender. He is wielding a broken bottle of tequila, and manages to strike the gunman brutally across the chest before he is shot between the eyes. The next manages to shoot the goon in the arm, and his weapon clatters to the ground. His killer falls to his knees, and snarls up at the young man holding a glock point-blank to his forehead.

"Arthur, no," Eames pulls himself fully off the bed, and comes to stand, despite the pain. "Me first—I'm going to need a head start down there."

Arthur's Projection keeps the gun level with the gunman's forehead, and hesitates only a moment. He curtly nods, and changes his aim to the space between the green eyes of the Forger. There is a tiny smile forming on the projection's lips, and he cocks the weapon back.

"Good luck, Mr. Eames," he says, and the flash of metal striking powder is the last thing Eames is aware of before reality comes spinning back.

Eames awakens to a very similar scene of that in the dream—he is seated in a chair with an IV in his arm, and his leg is propped up on the bed with a few homemade bandages. The pain is excruciating, but the gunman must have missed the femoral artery if he has survived this long. He manages to maneuver himself out of his seat, yanks the IV out, and hobbles over to the seat opposite him. He just manages to get the gun from the other man's belt when he finally stirs. He awakens to the Forger standing over him, and yet another pistol barrel staring him down.

"What are you going to do? Kill me?" It is rather pathetic, despite the man's best efforts to mask his fear. "You won't. If you kill me, you will never be sure what is real from this point forward."

Eames cocks the gun, and the man turns white.

"I'm defenseless."

"I can't imagine you being this afraid of dying if you knew this was only just another level of a dream," Eames' words are cold, void of feeling. "Suppose you should've thought that one through." He pulls the trigger, and the man bounces a little as the bullet exits his skull. The world stands still—as it always does, when Eames kills. It is not something he has ever enjoyed, but the pain is returning to his leg, and he knows he has work to do. The sting of what little guilt he had begins to die as the pain begins to flare, and he spots the gas can in the corner. Certainly, this man had no lesser a fate in store for him. He does what needs to be done.

**Ensenada, Mexico**

**[ Now ]**

Since the phone call, Eames has found himself restless.

His memories are returning, and instead of the arrogance he felt the night of his attempted capture, he is beginning to find a kind of paranoia is eating away on the edges of his mind. This is not the first time Eames has had his totem taken—it is not an uncommon tactic in his line of work. However, it is the first time he has come to alone in a hospital, assumed dead by everyone he can trust. The thought that he could still be in some sort of an elaborate dream will not leave him, and he is anxious to be out of this hospital.

Maria will not leave his side, and also seems to be the only one anyone has spoken with. He has no reason not to trust her, and no reason to question the constant apologetic look stricken upon the softly aged features. He tries to tell himself it is not guilt he can read in them, but rather a solemn pity stemming from his attempt to protect her, and the fact that is almost cost his life.

Then again, Eames has always been able to read people, like open pages in a book.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **So sorry for the gap, really… this poor chapter has been sitting in my documents for like four months untouched. I only just had time to finish it. However, before everyone goes on reading, I have to say a very special thank you to Anna! She made a fanfic trailer for Volatile; you can go watch it on youtube (.com/watch?v=DIXbIFZ_1I0 ). It is truly haunting, and I can't say enough good things about it. Thank you, Anna, you are disturbingly talented!

Anyway, folks… hope you enjoy!

**Part XIII**

**Delta Air, Flight to Mexico City**

**[ Now ]**

"I know you must hate me right now."

"You have no idea what I'm feeling," Arthur knows his words are bitter, and clipped, but it is far beyond his control. Dom sits across from him, rather matter-of-factly. He borders on clinical, the way he regards Arthur in such a quiet, calculating study; as though he is watching the other for signs of a second breakdown. Arthur refuses to give him that. He leans over the table, and rolls his loaded die again, perhaps for the thousandth time today. Dom shifts in his seat, and looks like he wants to say something.

"Arthur, I'm sorry," are the words, but there is nothing of an apology in his tone. "I don't expect you to forgive me anytime soon. I made a call, and it turned out to be the wrong one, and for that I am sorry. Beyond that, I don't know what you expect me to say."

Arthur flicks his eyes over to the other, blankly, and rubs his forefinger across his upper lip. He is still contemplating the gravity of the current situation, still trying to put the events of this day into a context he can process. The truth is, Dom need not apologize. Arthur has trusted him for over a decade now, and that trust has never been broken, not once. It is impossible to hold this against him now, in any form, because after everything—after Mal, after Eames, and every event and tragedy and triumph that has lead them to this very time and place, Arthur knows, deep down, that he would have made the same call. He would have wanted, above everything, to spare Dom the agony, and the regret; and yet he cannot bring himself to admit as much to the other man. He has hardly spoken since they left his San Diego apartment and headed for the airport, not out of anger, or resentment, but because he simply doesn't know what to say. He can't begin to find the right words. Dom seems to sense this, and as the moments pass in silence, he is the one to break it.

"If you would like," he begins slowly, testing each word before fully speaking it. "I can tell you what to expect when we walk into that room."

Arthur keeps his eyes on the window, on the miles and miles of earth and ocean passing beneath them, but does not object. Dom waits a moment before continuing.

"It's not like Chicago," he says, and Arthur rolls his eyes and cannot help a wry half-laugh. As if Dom knew what Chicago was like. "They dug some rounds out of him, but his vital organs weren't hit. The, uh… the shooter… from what I was able to determine," Dom clears his throat, and sits up a little, keeping his eyes steady on Arthur's reactions. "Toyed with him first. Tried to, ah… tried to break him for information on the rest of us."

Arthur closes his eyes, and draws in a deep breath, fighting off a rising nausea in the back of his throat. His hand moves from his lip to cover his eyes, and he ducks his chin. He braces himself for what he does not want to hear, and asks anyway, "What did they do to him?"

"When Eames retaliated he was disarmed. There was a struggle, and when the shooter finally got close enough he overpowered him—"

"What did he do to him?"

"He fired a hollow-point into his thigh, point blank. His femur was shattered. He should've bled out there, but the hit man had the presence of mind to tie off the wound and staunch the bleeding. They wanted him alive, it seems," he pauses long enough to run both hands through his hair, and when Arthur looks at him again he can see the Extractor's eyes have glazed a bit. He has been dreading this conversation from the moment he learned this information. "He was put under, but didn't break. He got away, and they had to remove what little bone was left and replace it with a titanium rod. Chances are he will walk again, but… it will never be the same. He has a long road ahead."

"This is what you couldn't tell me?" Arthur snaps, and snatches his die up in his hand. Dom is silent, and his expression does not falter. Arthur inhales sharply, and leans back in his seat. "There's more, isn't there."

"There were burns. Some of them third degree. They covered his legs, his torso. He has some skin grafts, some scars. His shoulder and neck got it pretty bad. His hands," he glances down a moment, as if trying to decide how to continue. "He's not out of the woods, Arthur. He's on anti-biotics, to prevent infection. He's already had to fight off a few. He's going to be in there a while longer. Last I heard they were going to chemically induce a coma, to allow time for his body to heal…"

Arthur can still hear the words Dom is speaking, but his thoughts have drifted elsewhere. He remembers seeing Eames in that bed, in recovery eight years ago, in Chicago. He remembers how Eames, when finally conscious, tried to make Arthur smile despite being laid up and torn apart by gunshot wounds. How Eames succeeded once even, enough to make Arthur laugh. Arthur remembers the guilt, heavy and unrelenting. He remembers lying awake at night, in the chair across from Eames' bed, and how he longed to trade places with the other man.

And yet, Cobb insists this is not Chicago.

**CHICAGO, USA**

**February [ 8 years ago ]**

When he hears the knock at the door Arthur closes his book, makes sure he is at the very least presentable, and opens the door. He takes one look at Eames, and at the obvious tremors of effort and pain being masked by the same grin he has presented for years, and comes very close to walking away. However, because Arthur is physically incapable of doing so, he simply says, in the flattest tone he can muster, "What in God's name are you doing?"

"What? They told me I could."

Arthur is not impressed by this, and so he allows his expression to knot into further disapproval. "They told you it was okay."

"Yes, they said I could start moving around a little more. After all, it's been almost two months," Eames' grin widens, and Arthur regards him skeptically.

"Moving around. A little more."

"Yes that my potential for mobility was increasing by the day. Doctor's words, verbatim."

"…Right, well. I'm not a doctor, but I'm fairly certain that meant things like, oh, helping yourself out of your wheelchair, or walking yourself to the bathroom. I don't think he was giving you permission to stroll out the front door, hail a cab, come all the way downtown to the hotel I'm staying in, walk three flights of stairs, and then come knocking on my door."

"Well, you just admitted you're not a doctor, darling, you've thrown all credibility out the window," Eames is leaning heavily against the doorframe now, and trying not to make it apparent he is, at the very least, moderately uncomfortable. "But for your information, the elevators are working again, so I didn't walk three flights of stairs. Besides, sometimes you've got to give your body the credit it deserves, and take it out for a test drive to see where the line is."

"Ahuh," Arthur tilts his head, pointedly. "So where is the line?"

"Apparently I've crossed it, I'm fucking exhausted. Help me in?"

Eames pushes himself off of the doorframe, and gingerly takes a step inside. In the end, Arthur has to loop an arm behind his back to help him support his own weight, and together, with unsteady, carefully coordinated steps, they make it to the chair. Just before trying to lower him into it, Eames' body bends in way his scar tissue, stitches, and unused muscles disagree with, and Arthur has to steer him to the bed. Eames lands with a slight 'oof', and pulls himself onto the queen sized mattress by his elbows, while the Point Man lifts his legs to join his body.

Arthur watches him get settled, but does not settle himself. Instead, he stands over him with his arms crossed. "So. Why are you here?"

"I think the better question is why are you still here?" Eames' face has thinned out a bit, which makes his lips seem even fuller when they pull into a lopsided grin. "Dom took off. Mal followed a few weeks later, and I assumed you would be following them… yet, you're here, a month after everyone else deemed me stable enough to leave alone."

Arthur shrugs, not uncrossing his arms. He is casual, letting the question roll right off of him. "There's not a job right now, I don't have too much going on. I just figured you might as well have someone here when they finally release you," he nods at Eames as the other attempts to sit up a little higher. "You know that just because you can walk around some it doesn't mean you're entirely healed. You're traumatizing muscles you haven't used in two months, and tissue that's been ripped through and sewn back together. These stunts you like to pull aren't going to make it any easier on yourself."

"Well neither is sitting on my hind parts watching Judge Judy," Eames sounds somewhat defensive.

"Well, that's why there's such a thing as physical therapy. You can't go from zero to a hundred; you have to work up to it."

"And you can't expect me to go from a hundred to zero, either," Eames is finally confident in his upright position, finally having straightened himself up—his back rests against the headboard, but his fists are curled into the mattress, and there is a barely visible tremor flowing through his arms as he helps keep the weight off of his torso. Arthur cannot help but make a too-casual attempt to avert his eyes. He has visited Eames once or twice in the hospital, but that is about all he can handle at this juncture. The sight of the Forger two months ago, fresh out of surgery and white as the sheets he lay on, hooked up to a ventilator with a machine breathing for his battered body is one Arthur cannot shake. It is the reason Arthur has stayed behind and allowed the others to go: because it should have been him that night, and it should have been him in that bed. It should be him, now, hobbling around the city and losing his mind trying to recover. "And besides, I took this little field trip to let you see firsthand that I am fast on the mend, and you can leave me at any time you choose."

"I know that," is the flat reply, and Arthur's irritation is not lost on Eames, and the other man squints at him, and tilts his head.

"You do."

"Yes."

"Then did you also know that what happened to me was not your fault, and it was my choice to take those rounds, and I don't regret a goddamn moment of that night, and that I would do it again? So there is really no reason for you to keep looking at me like that," his finger flies up between them, and leers accusingly at Arthur's distant stare. "That, right there, that anger-pity-guilt thing you do. And don't bother denying it; it doesn't take a psychologist to see you're harboring plenty of that, along with a hefty dose of resentment towards me for doing the damn thing in the first place."

Arthur feels his shoulders tense up, and his nose and upper lip scrunch like he just tasted bad medicine. "Harboring resentment? Hardly—but yeah, I was pissed. I was pissed that we let our guard down long enough for them to get the drop on us. I was pissed that, even when I was kneeling on the pavement holding your guts in, you found the situation fucking funny. And I'm still pissed because, based on all of that, I know you would do it again—"

"Why don't you just see this for what this is, and let it be, Arthur," Eames cuts him off, and Arthur has to turn his head away again, and ultimately, turns his back on Eames to keep from seeing him struggle to come to his feet. He does, and manages a step or two in the Point Man's direction. "Accept it, and move on."

"Accept what," his neck turns a little, and he can see the other man from the corner of his eye. Even at an optical disadvantage, he can see how Eames' form has shrank from the last two months of recovery, and yet the man still finds it in him to stand with his feet wide apart, and his hands resting on his hips.

"That I took a bullet for you," the words hit Arthur like a cold wave, and sink into him slow and painful. Eames does not let up. "And that I didn't do it to get you into bed, and I didn't do it because of some bizarre need to protect you, I took it—them, in fact—because you are one of only two people on this planet I would take a bullet for. I care about you, if you haven't noticed."

The room is suddenly silent. Distantly, the sound of sirens and traffic float up from three floors down. Arthur clears his throat.

"I did notice, when you were coming on to me not two minutes before it all went down," Not even Arthur knows if he is attempting to make a joke. Luckily, Eames' posture relaxes a little, and he can turn around to face the Forger again.

"Well that's a little below the belt, don't you think?" Eames' wounded expression triggers that stab of guilt again, and Arthur rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair. Before he can mutter out a half-assed apology, "You think that's all this is, don't you?"

"All what is," exhaustion is seeping through the cracks of his logical exterior. Emotions are exhausting, which is why Arthur seldom gives into them. Eames, however, seems to never tire of them, and is staring him down, narrowed gray eyes searching his face and body language down to the last crease between his eyebrows.

"Well, then—allow me to drop my playful, cool tone, my terms of endearment, and my charm long enough to make this unmistakably clear to you: there is no question of whether or not I'm attracted to you, I am. When I say I care about you, I'm not trying to tell you, yet again, that I am attracted to you. I care about you because you know what I am, and you don't cringe away from it. You accept me, without prejudice, you work beside me, fight beside me, have drinks with me after a job. You've stitched up knife wounds and let me sleep off my binges on your couch. You've watched my back impeccably. And when the time came, I returned the favor. You are my friend, Arthur, my closest if you must know, and that, I should think, trumps the pet names, and the ass-grabbing, and the bloody tries to kiss you every blue moon."

Arthur is silent, dark head inclined and his hands buried in his pockets. He knows Eames is awaiting his response, because Arthur is seldom without one—he can usually snap right back at Eames without hesitation, and that seems to be what Eames is bracing him for. After a moment or two, Arthur's chin ducks a little further, and while his gaze does not move from his wing-tips, he offers a quiet apology.

"I'm sorry," it is all he can say. "You're right, I'm sorry."

Eames snorts, and with quite a bit of effort he slowly backs himself onto the bed, and lowers heavily to sit in a position that keeps weight off of his torso. "Another beautifully made point bites the dust."

Arthur half turns toward him, and his stare is a thousand yards past the window now. He has been dreading this moment not only because Eames is here to bear witness, but because he does not enjoy dwelling in the past. He does not often let himself back there, because he knows firsthand how even reality has a limbo.

Finally, "You don't… remember much… after getting shot. Do you?"

Eames frowns, thoughtful. "Not really, no. There are flashes, but," a light chuckle, wry and ironic. "They may've only been dreams." Arthur's expression has darkened, and so Eames offers, "What is it you remember, Arthur?"

"Everything. I remember the blood running into my clothes. I remember how every time you took a breath, you'd lose a little more blood. I remember the heat of your blood, the way it smelled, because I've watched you die so many times in the dreamscape I was used to it. The thing…" he trails off, words sticking in his throat. Eames is only listening, quietly. "…the thing I wasn't used to, the thing that turned out to be such an all-new mind fuck was that this was real. That you were dying. It was a scenario I couldn't come up with a plan for. I realized it was… an impossible scenario, because I plan for every scenario. This one… I couldn't think of anything beyond the ambulance arriving. I'm not telling you what went down that night, the aftermath, your surgery, it's not necessary; but, maybe after admitting this, now you can see how I felt. How I feel."

Arthur does not look at him, even after he is finished speaking, and Eames does not bother him to. They sit in a comfortable silence, because Arthur has said all he really can, and Eames knows as much. Despite outward appearances, the Forger does not always derive pleasure from making the Point Man uncomfortable; and yet, sometimes, he does it for the right reason. Eames leans forward a little, and does not wince.

"Thank you," he says, gentle, and with respect. "Thank you for saving my life."

Arthur's stare breaks, and he is brought back into reality. Without smiling, or changing expression, he simply replies, "And thank you for saving mine."

**Challapalca Prison**

**Peru**

**[Seven Months before the Diehl Job]**

When Arthur had received the first words of the Forger's whereabouts, a chill ran through his entire body and imprinted in his memory. He had not wanted to call Cobb at first, knowing what the Extractor would have to say about the grim situation, and when he did the older man did not disappoint.

"He would've been better off killed in the chair," Cobb had murmured on the other end of the line. "I'll see what I can do, make some calls. You still talk to your old pals?" What he had meant by Arthur's 'old pals' were contacts he had in the Central Intelligence Agency, whom on several occasions pulled strings to get him set up with aliases, or access into embassies. It had been a long shot from the beginning—Eames had been incarcerated in Challapalca for just over two months, and the facility itself made very little effort to change the world's perception of it. High altitudes, harsh conditions inside and out, and a general neglect of human rights were all a common knowledge to the rest of the world, and just before hanging up the phone, Cobb warned him, "He may be dead, Arthur. Prepare yourself."

It took just under a day for Arthur's connection to set him up a badge, papers, and a passport for a one "Mr. James". His cover was extradition of a prisoner as a matter of National Security. This was one favor he was going to owe on until the day he died. Arthur went alone with Cobb's voice shouting in his head not to jump the gun, because he hadn't even arranged an exit strategy; but Arthur, usually patient and a thinker, rather than a doer, politely blew him off. In the days before, Arthur might have waited, might have even trusted Eames to sort this out himself, but things were different now. Job or no job, he should not have left the other alone as long as he had without so much checking in to see if he was dead or alive.

As it happens, Eames is not dead.

He is in one of the old interrogation rooms, eight by ten, on the other side of a cracked two-way mirror. His posture suggests he has been here many times before and that perhaps at first he would lean back easily in the chair with a lop-sided smirk and let them waste their time questioning, guessing, coercing, but now he is tired. Exhausted, even. He only seems healthy in that he has not lost any muscle mass; in fact, it looks like he has gained some. His head has been shaved, and it looks like his hair is only just beginning to come back. Eames doesn't even glance up around the room or even at the mirror as if wondering when what face will come through the door. He coughs, once, twice, and suddenly his body is overtaken in spasms of a horrendous sound—a cough that looks positively agonizing. Arthur keeps himself in check.

"I'm sure you're well acquainted with this facility's reputation," the warden is a smaller man, with slicked black hair and a large nose with a bump that seems to hold up his glasses. He speaks very good English, and there is a tinge of cruelty lining the edge of every word. He would have to be, to survive here. "But your American has been treated with the utmost hospitality, I assure you."

"He's sick," Arthur says, dispassionately. The warden gives a little shrug, and nods to the guard to unlock the door.

"A touch of pneumonia. Hardly something to worry about behind these walls."

"So I've heard," Arthur takes a step forward, but the warden moves an arm between him and the door. He pauses, expression blank. "Was there something else?"

"Yes. Extraction is not taken lightly by our government. I was told he would be returned to us, once your people get what they need from him."

"And he will be."

"Mr. James," the warden's voice is sheer and light, and veiling a threat. "I have an understanding of how these things usually go about. You say he threatens your National Security, and I'm sure that's true," his tone tells otherwise, and a chill rises on the back of Arthur's neck, and travels the length of his spine. "But we intend to have him pay for his crimes here. Rest assured, if you don't come to us, we will come to you."

"Sir, he will be returned to you when our government no longer sees him as a threat-"

"He killed six people, Mr. James. Including the beloved son of our ambassador. We expect him to serve here, and if the court deems it just, die here."

Arthur feels himself tensing with every long moment that passes. He forces a relaxed smile. "You have the word of the United States. Excuse me."

The door opens to reveal Eames much like he was, and when the bleary eyes roll up to Arthur he is instinctively unresponsive. Not even a flicker of surprise. Arthur puts his briefcase down, and pulls out the chair across from Eames.

"I was wondering when you people would show up," Eames' voice is all gravel, but he is pulling his best American accent. Arthur raises both brows, and snorts.

"We're not here for your body count in Peru, Mr. Eames. These are very specific incidents. You will be briefed on the chopper." He wants so badly to ask how he has been—how he got those deep bone bruises, and how his shoulder was laid open. He can't so much as blink in reaction to the other's appearance, it would shatter his credibility. "Now get up."

Eames gingerly raises from the table, and his worn clothing is practically thread bare. For the climate in these mountains, it is a pure form of torture. His first steps are racked with violent coughs, and it takes every fiber of Arthur's will to stop from reaching out and allowing the other man to lean on him for support. Eames does not bother; he knows their lives depend on it. The buzzer sounds over their heads, and the heavy door is opened with the warden blocking the entrance. Arthur just exhales through his nose, and lets his hand rest halfway into his pocket, patiently awaiting another menacing threat.

"Peru will be very much looking forward to your return, Mr. Eames," he says, gently. "And make no mistake—you will return. That, I can promise you."

Eames, still in cuffs with his battered visage aimed at the floor, manages to roll his eyes up to the warden and give a nasty, split-lipped smile. "Blow me, would you please?"

"Alright, that's enough. Warden," Arthur nods one last time at the other man before taking Eames roughly by the arm and leading him out the interrogation room. It is a quiet walk down through security, and then onto the launch pad. Quiet, but hurried. Arthur cannot risk any second thoughts the warden may have about his identity, and when they reach the empty launch pad he cannot contain himself any longer. He glances at his watch, and then over at Eames, who is trying to keep his bound arms as close to his body as possible, pale and even trembling a little in the cold.

"Eames. What the hell happened over here?"

"Oh—you know the story. One minute you think you're taking on some golden opportunity to make a lot of money, and the next you realize you're actually being tricked into an assassination plot. Trouble was I couldn't get out after I realized I was some wanker's patsy."

"Who hired you?"

"The benefactor behind the magic never came forward. Should've been my first clue. Some Polish bloke."

"He said something about you killing six people."

Eames cracks a pained smile, and a wheezing laugh followed. "The target wasn't one of them. His son was killed in the crossfire, but not by me. It seemed like the only way out at the time."

"And in hindsight?"

"In hindsight it was a blunder that cost me the lives of two team members and nearly my own. Faulty research on my Point's part."

"Won't be working with him again, then."

"Well, no, Arthur, he's dead. Paid for his mistake," Eames shrugs, and just for a moment there is a ghost of regret behind his eyes. "Wasn't his fault. Just green was all."

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and narrows his eyes against the wind chill, searching the skies for any sign of his arranged transportation. It should've been here by now, but then again, Dom told him not to rush in. When he hears the familiar sounds of the blades of the chopper spitting through the air he can barely hold back an audible sound of relief, and steps back a few paces as it comes into position. "This isn't going to pretty. If Peru's government is as Hell bent as they sounded on bringing you back here—" Eames begins to chuckle, and the hideous sound of laughter in his raw throat cuts Arthur off. "I'm really not seeing where laughter is appropriate here, at all, really."

"That's because you're not standing where I am," Eames' voice is almost drowned out by the helicopter, and when he ducks his head to board it Arthur follows, keeping a hand on the small of his back and guiding him into his seat. His pale lips crack into a wide smile as he settles in, and Arthur just frowns, buckling himself in. "I'm in a helicopter, sitting beside you in a lovely controlled climate, warm. There are so many reasons to laugh, Arthur."

"It's Mr. James until we land," Arthur says, almost coldly, but he is not the one to break eye contact. He forces his own rigid upright position, even as Eames begins to sink a little. "Try not to act too enthusiastic."

"Of course not," Eames croaks through that smile, and his gaze drops off into his laugh, and his laughter is strained; a chortled wheeze from a bloodied grin. "An hour ago, I…" the chortles turn into short, rattling coughs, and the smile bleeds off his face. "An hour ago…" the Forger's words are cut off by merciless coughing, and he brings a shaking hand to cover his mouth as his body is racked with them, and he closes his eyes tight, folding within himself, hunching over and bringing his knees together so his elbows my rest on them. Arthur sits stiffly beside him, only giving him sidelong glances until he quiets down. The coughing subsides, and Eames is reduced to quick, wheezing gasps, and his trembling hand travels up to cover his eyes, while his other runs over the stubble of his shaved scalp.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize that Eames is not stifling coughs; he is stifling sobs, uncontrollable, soft, and broken, so quiet they are barely audible. It is startling, because Arthur has never seen this before. In the darkest of their days, he has never seen Eames break, not like this. He wonders what could have possibly happened here, after everything they have seen and done together, to force this release.

And yet he doesn't want to ask. Eames has spent time in the military, time in prison, has been tortured before, physically, and mentally, and managed to come out the other side Teflon. He does not want to find out what could crack him.

"Eames," Arthur says, his voice firm and even. The Forger does not seem to hear him, and so he leans in a little. He can feel the heat of the other—the clammy heat of a fever breaking, and he wraps a hand around the other's bicep. His skin is still cold. "Eames. An hour ago you knew I was coming to get you. You just didn't know it would be today."

Eames nods, and lifts his head, catching his breath and swiping a dirty hand passed his eyes, despite not having actually shed a tear. "I know."

"When we get to the states we'll be in El Paso. From there we have to get to the hospital, get you checked out," Arthur feels a twinge of shame when Eames only nods silently, and turns to look out the window at the distant ground passing below them. It had taken everything in him to not break down in joy and relief to see Arthur, and all the Point Man can do is stick to cold protocol, and chastise him at the first hint of emotion. He takes a deep breath, and unbuckles his seat belt, giving the pilot one last glance around the barrier of the seat to make sure they are not being watched before he moves closer to Eames. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you sooner."

Eames' eyes shift over his shoulder to Arthur; bloodshot, and fatigued, from the inside out. "Arthur," he says just as quietly, and blinks slow, and bleary, as if he is about to succumb to the exhaustion. "Don't start getting soft on me."

He begins to sink again, as if his body cannot seem to hold itself up any longer, and his chin begins to droop to his chest, eyes still fighting to stay open. Arthur gently takes him by the arm, and reaches around to his shoulder, guiding his body downward to lie on his side, and allows the Forger's head to rest on his thigh. "Now what did I just say," Eames mumbles into the material of Arthur's pants, sleepily, as if he has already drifted off. Arthur just snorts, and runs his palm over the soft stubble of Eames' shorn hair, running his thumb softly over the temple.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames," he says, and Eames does. He sleeps like he has not slept in months.

**Ensenada, Mexico**

**[ Now ]**

"What were you before me?"

"I was a dreamer."

"A dreamer," his soft chuckle. The crinkle in his eyes just before he rolls them to the side, to let Eames know how silly he is being. "A dreamer, not a Forger, or Extractor. A Dreamer?"

"A dreamer," Eames murmurs, flat on his back with his head on a soft pillow, and the Arthur beside him, stifling a laugh. "A dreamer. I dreamt the world in fantasies. I dreamt a world of beauty, and solace, and time that slowed down or rushed by as I wished."

"You dreamt of an impossible happiness," Arthur interrupts, and yet Eames is still happy. "You dreamt of the impossible when you met me."

"Only of the improbable, darling," he lets the words roll off his tongue, and Arthur only smiles. It is warm, and safe. "With you, impossible simply does not exist."

The smile melts from Arthur's face. His voice begins to grow harsh. "Jonathan. Wake up," he says, low at first, before he leans in and gives Eames a shake. "Jonathan… Jonathan!"

"What—why are you calling me that?"

"Wake up, wake up!" Arthur growls, panicked, and almost disembodied. "Wake up, Jonathan, now-"

Maria is across the room, and when she turns around, and his focus begins to return he can see that her face has been struck, and her eyes are beginning to darken, and swell. He cannot seem to force his mouth to open, and before he can even think to speak she asks him, evenly, "Can you walk?"

There is a burning in his right arm, somewhere, in the fog that is his perception, and he swallows—his throat is dry, and feels like it has almost swollen shut, sticking to itself. Maria's eyes pan over him once more; as if she is not convinced he can hear her. She steps closer.

"Jonathan," she reaches down to touch his forehead, and pulls the skin of his eyelids up, letting the painful bright light flood in. Eames hisses, and twists away from her grip, screwing his eyes shut. The burning in his arm is becoming more intense. "Jonathan, can you walk?" She speaks in a whispered hush, an alien tone.

"Not," he does not hear the word escape his lips right away, and so he swallows again, and clears his throat. "Not well…"

"But can you?"

He does not understand why she is asking him this, but he shakes his head, and flutters his eyelids, attempting to adapt to the light. "I don't think so."

"You'll have to. Get up," she doesn't wait for a response before throwing back his blankets, and a rush of cold air replaces the warmth. He groans, and pulls at his arm. It is handcuffed to the bed rail.

"My arm," he mumbles, and looks over to see her pulling out an IV. "Why does my arm hurt?"

"It is to counteract the pain medication. They wanted to keep you sedated," Maria slides the needle out, and ignores the little trickle of blood that follows. She produces a pick with her other hand, and in a moment he is free of the cuff. She takes his hand and grips him hard, pulling him gently but firmly toward her in a sitting position. He feels weightless, and heavy, and when he first comes to sit he begins to feel sick and dizzy. The pain crawls back to his senses, all over his body, and he starts to cry out but Maria shushes him harshly. "Quiet! We are going to get you up, and it is going to hurt, but you must stay quiet, do you understand? Jonathan, get up-!"

He clenches his teeth, and bites back against the waves of pain that try to bring him down, unsteadily, moving his leg over the side, first one and then the other. The tightness of his healing skin and the sharp, debilitating pain in his thigh burns through him, and forces him to clarity.

"Get up, get up," she goads him, and the urgency in her tone releases a prickle of fear in the back of his mind. Something is wrong. It finally begins to dawn on him. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. "Come on, get up!"

She manages to pull him to his feet, and he almost falls forward at first, but is able to steady himself with a hand on the bed rail. His legs shake, his body shakes, and the pain is near unbearable. The pain is consuming, and sickening, and it takes his breath away.

"Now," she breathes. "Take a step toward me."

"What are you not telling me?" he tries to ask, gingerly sliding a foot forward, and the other follows, following heavily. This time he does cry out, and almost loses his balance. After a moment, "Maria, tell me what is happening!"

"Twenty agents of the Mexican government are here to extradite you. They wish to take you back to Peru, where you will stand trial," she turns away, and is leaning over a black duffle bag perched on the visitor's chair. "We're going to get you out of here before they do. I will cut your hair, and dress you in scrubs, and you will exit this hospital as subtly and artfully as you have always done, I have brought you scrubs. You will be a shadow, and by the time they realize you are gone, you will already be in the next city."

Eames' heart has dropped into the pit of his belly. His blood runs cold. "How did they find me?"

"Come here," she says, guiding him to the chair and plugging a battery into the shears. "Diehl told them, before his untimely death, that you were still alive—that you and you alone were responsible for the Peru boy's death, and now they have come to collect you. You have to leave."

The pain is stifling, and constant, and he cannot rid himself of it, so he ignores it. Maria is working quickly, and he can feel her hand trembling around the clippers as she takes off his first stripe off already too-long hair. He knows that tremor, the quick speech patterns: she is nervous, because of his situation—and because she is still holding back.

"Maria," he begins, slowly, and uncertain as how to word what is going through his mind. "…How exactly did Anthony Diehl know about my involvement in Peru?" She does not answer immediately, and only continues to shear off his hair. It falls to his shoulders, and then into his lap. He does not turn to look at her, but he closes his eyes, and inhales deeply; he already knows the answer. "Maria. How?"

"The man who funded your Peru extraction," Maria's voice wavers, only slightly, but he can feel the pressure from the clippers begin to bear down on his scalp. "The one who would not come forward with his identity was Anthony Diehl. I did not think you would ever see or hear from him again. It was only after you called me on your way to Tijuana that I realized you had just performed an extraction on him… and by then it was too late. His people knew exactly where to follow you."

"The hit was never about killing me," Eames fills in the blanks. His head begins to hurt, and he reaches up to bring a hand over his eyes. "It was to deliver me back to Peru. To be his scapegoat."

"They wanted to know who else had knowledge of the assassination. To track them down as well, so all of the heat would be taken off Diehl, and his political ambitions would be brought to fruition. Your ally, Mr. Saito tracked down Diehl and his associates, and took them out—when they killed Diehl, the evidence to exonerate you died with him."

"You knew who he was all this time," Eames tries to keep his tone even, but his words only darken. "You could have stopped this months ago, Maria—"

"Jonathan, please," she continues to work quickly, but he can hear her begin to break down. "I did not know. I thought you would never cross paths with him again, even in our line of work—"

"You've signed my death warrant," Eames cuts her off, coldly. When the last piece of his long hair falls to the floor he jerks away from her, and braces his palms onto the arms of the chair, shakily rising to his feet. "Help me dress, will you?"

His words hang in the room, and echo in the silence. Maria's face is stricken, and she can say nothing. Perhaps, by now, Eames expected to be out of this place. Perhaps he had expected Peru to have forgotten him, and for Arthur to come walking through that door any time, and take him home, and his current condition—which is most likely his permanent condition—to be forgotten.

Yet, as he unsteadily sheds his hospital down, and steps into the pair of scrub pants, hardly able to balance long enough to get his weaker leg in, it begins to dawn on him that perhaps these expectations are only the diseased illusions of the dreamer that he was, and the harsh reality follows suit: that Arthur had not found him, because the Point Man accepted his death. That even after the phone call, Arthur still has not called, or come, because he has accepted the reality so entirely that he has moved passed it. He has already grieved for his lover, and the world has already mourned Jonathan Eames, the brilliant Forger and Extractor.

There is only a moment that hangs between them, and then Eames gestures to her for scrub top. He slides into it, robotically, and runs his hands over his newly-shorn hair as he begins to adopt the presence and mannerisms of a room aid. He will leave this place, alive, no matter the price.


End file.
